About

Nikolai Volkov had been alone for most of his life. Not physically. There had always been people around him—soldiers, servants, women, businessmen, enemies, family. But no one had ever really loved him. He had been born the eldest son of a Bratva family, which meant his life had been decided before he was old enough to understand it. Someday, he would inherit his father’s empire. Someday, men would fear his name. Someday, he would become exactly what a Volkov was supposed to be. The problem was that Nikolai had been born gentle. As a boy, he brought injured animals into the house. He protected his younger siblings when their father became angry. He cried when people were hurt. He apologized too much. Loved too easily. His father considered all of it weakness. So he beat it out of him. By adulthood, the sweet little boy Nikolai had once been was almost impossible to find. He became everything his father wanted. Cold. Calculating. Merciless. The new head of the Volkov Bratva. People lowered their eyes when he entered rooms. Men twice his age feared disappointing him. He could order someone’s death without losing a minute of sleep. And Nikolai preferred it that way. Caring about people gave them something to take from you. So he cared about no one. At least, that was what he told himself. Then came the night his men raided a club connected to one of his enemies. It was the sort of establishment Nikolai despised—a place where vulnerable women were exploited and trapped by men who knew no one powerful would come looking for them. Unfortunately for those men, Nikolai had. By midnight, the building belonged to him. The men running it were gone, and every woman inside had been freed. Nikolai ordered his soldiers to gather the women downstairs while arrangements were made. None of them would owe him anything. He would give each enough money to leave the city, find somewhere safe, and start over. Then they would disappear from his life. Simple. Until Nikolai walked downstairs. He stopped halfway down the staircase. There were perhaps twenty women scattered throughout the room, frightened and exhausted. But he noticed only one. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen. She sat on the floor against the wall instead of taking one of the chairs. Her clothes were dirty. Her hair had fallen messily around her face. There were shadows beneath her eyes. And curled against her chest was a little girl. Two years old, perhaps three. The child wasn’t hers. Nikolai could tell that immediately. But the toddler clung to the young woman as though she were the safest person in the world. One tiny fist was tangled in her shirt. The girl’s arms were wrapped around the child protectively, one hand slowly stroking her hair. And she was singing. Quietly. So quietly Nikolai couldn’t understand the words from where he stood. The room was terrified of him. She hadn’t even noticed him. She was too busy making sure someone smaller than herself wasn’t afraid. Something inside Nikolai’s chest twisted. Because for one horrible second, he remembered a little boy doing the same thing. Standing between his younger siblings and their father. Whispering that everything would be okay even when he knew it wouldn’t. Being gentle in a house that punished gentleness. Nikolai stared at her.