Chapter 1
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Roman pov
The Voronov name means something in this world. It means blood, vengeance, ownership. Violence.
And a little bit of stalking on the side.
I stare at the cute crystal duck collection on Zoya Antonova's dressing table. I bend down to get a closer look. Expensive Swarovski. It tells me more about her than she probably thinks. I flick out a finger, turning one of them around, and my gaze moves to the picture of Zoya and her mother. They could be sisters with their long dark hair and expressive brown eyes. Russian beauty in front of the backdrop of Tower Bridge. There is a metaphor somewhere in there, but I'll leave the analysis for another time. My glance skates over my reflection in the mirror, showing me the dark-haired, blue-eyed Voronov heir. I smirk and straighten up, smoothing down the front of my navy Tom Ford suit. If only she knew I was here, examining her things, making notes, making alterations that will drive her mad. The urge to slam the photo face down ripples through me, but I control it. Too much. Subtlety is key.
I pull open the top drawer of the enormous antique chest in the corner.
Zoya's underwear is all neatly stacked, organised by colour and fabric. Meticulous. Slight OCD, maybe. I run my fingers over the black silk knickers and pull a pair out, letting them dangle from my fingers for a moment before I scrunch them up and bring them to my nose to sniff. Jasmine. It's intoxicating, a scent that shouldn't belong to a woman whose family is a rival. But the Voronovs take what they want, and right now, I want to know everything about her. Every secret. Every scent. Every hidden fear.
I exhale slowly, the fabric cool against my lip, before tucking the silk back into the drawer. I nudge the neat stack of lace thongs just an inch to the left, disrupting the symmetry. A small disruption. A glitch in her perfect matrix that will make her frown, make her question her memory when she dresses for whatever mundane dinner she has planned tonight. It's psychological warfare, wrapped in silk.
Shutting the drawer with a barely audible click, I turn my attention to the bed. It's vast, covered in too many pillows, the duvet a pristine cloud of white. I walk over, my footsteps silent on the plush cream carpet. I reach out and press my palm into the mattress, testing the give, imagining the warmth of her body curling into this space. My gaze drifts to the bedside table. A glass of water, half-empty, and a paperback book with a cracked spine. I pick up the glass, my thumb tracing the rim where her lips would have touched. The thought is a dangerous distraction. I set the glass back down.
This is her sanctuary, but she has no idea the monster has a key, and he's already made himself at home. I check my Patek Philippe watch. Time's nearly up.
The second hand hits the hour, and I blink.
The phone in my jacket pocket vibrates quietly. My father. The Voronov pakhan. He waits for no one. Not even his heir. I pull it out and answer before the second vibration starts.
"Yes?"
"Mikhail has been assassinated."
"Oh?"
"Pull out," he says. "Let her find out, and then, we move in."
I smile as I hang up. Then, I move in, more like. The countdown has started. She will go through the motions.
I slide the phone back into my inner pocket, the weight of the device heavier now that it carries a death sentence. The silence of the house feels different, pregnant with the news that hasn't yet arrived. It's a fragile peace, dangling by a thread that my father has just severed. Zoya will be walking through the front door in less than ten minutes. I know her schedule better than she knows it herself. Pilates on Kensington High Street, a stop for an oat milk latte, then home to change.
Today, she won't be changing. Today, she'll be mourning.
I cast a final, possessive look around the room. The disrupted underwear drawer, the rotated crystal duck. Tiny fissures in her reality. My gaze lingers on the framed photo of her father. The man in the picture is smiling with his arm around her shoulders. The King is dead. Long live the... well, me.
I shouldn't dawdle, but the urge to leave one final, physical trace is overwhelming. I walk to the sash window overlooking the damp garden. I undo the latch and slide the pane up a fraction of an inch. Just enough to let the London chill bleed in. Just enough to create a low, mournful whistle when the wind picks up tonight. She'll feel the draft on her skin and shiver, pulling that duvet tighter, never realising the cold came from me.
I slip out of the room, the door clicking shut silently. I descend the stairs of the multi-million-pound townhouse, a ghost haunting a house that's already grieving, and slip out of the front door. I unjam the signals as I walk away, bringing her security cams back online. It's lazy, but I have no fear.
If she catches me, what is she going to do?
Outside, the air is thick with the promise of rain. I head towards the waiting black Mercedes two blocks away. Zoya will be home in five minutes. I lean back against the leather seat as the engine purrs to life, picturing the moment she walks through the door. I visualise the scream that will tear through her throat when the phone call comes through. It's a pity I won't be there to hear it. Not yet. Soon, I'll be the one wiping the tears from her cheeks, and she won't even suspect the hand comforting her is the same one holding the knife.
"Wait," I command Yuri. "Give it five minutes."
He nods, obedient and silent, keeping the engine idling low. The vibration hums through the chassis, a dull counterpoint to the adrenaline spiking in my blood. Rain spots the windscreen, fat, heavy drops.
Precisely on schedule, a white Range Rover Evoque turns the corner. Zoya.
She parks outside the townhouse, and the door opens. She steps out onto the wet pavement, clutching her oat milk latte as she swings her gym bag over her shoulder. She's wearing white yoga pants and a tight, hot pink sports bra, highlighting the curves I was fantasising about only moments ago. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, swinging as she moves towards the gate. The rain doesn't bother her. She just moves as if the sun were shining down on her. She looks irritatingly composed. Happy, even. A woman whose biggest worry is a scuffed manicure or a sold-out handbag.
She has no idea her phone will ring, and her world will come crashing down.
I want to see it. I want to see the moment she breaks.
"Come on," I whisper. If I miss it, I will be annoyed, and someone will lose their head.
A dark satisfaction coils in my gut as her phone rings, chirping through the air like a death knell. I own this moment. I own the silence before the storm. I watch her fish it from her bag, clutching the to-go cup in her other hand as it threatens to spill.
"Careful, Devochka," I whisper.
"Who is this?" she asks.
I hold my breath. Waiting. Watching.
Her face pales, and her sob tears through the rain as her oat milk latte hits the pavement, splashing her pristine running shoes. I exhale slowly. She is mine now. She just doesn't know it yet.
"Drive," I murmur, before I get out of this car to slam into her world and destroy it further. "Move."
