: Chapter 1

Branding is notthe same level of pain as a tat, and I don’t know why I ever let Rodion convince me otherwise.

But this isn’t just my brand. It’s my vow to swear my soul to the Bratva, my promise to give every ounce of my being to my Bratva kin.

I sit on a stool, molars locked, my feet hooked under the rungs so I don’t topple off. Fucking hell.

“How’s that pain, bro?” Rodion, my younger cousin and best friend, stands a few feet away, strategically out of my reach, his arms crossed on his chest.

“Feels like ink,” I mock. I glare at him. “I’m gonna kick your fucking ass.”

It doesn’t feel like ink. It feels like penance.

Rafail, the head of the Kopolov family Bratva and my oldest cousin, shakes his head. “He’s due,” he mutters.

Vadka presses his lips together, a look of concentration on his face. I look away as he presses the brand into my back. I close my eyes and try to mentally transport the fuck out of here, but it doesn’t work. The pain is too raw, too vivid. My throat burns from swallowing a scream, the sickening stench of seared flesh filling the room. Someone makes a retching sound.

“What’d he tell you?” Vadka says, doing a piss-ass job of hiding his amusement.

I exhale through my nose. “Said it felt like a tat.”

Vadka snorts but keeps his hand still. “You should definitely kick his ass for that, but you’re the dumbass who believed him. How is a prickling needle the same as a hot iron scarring your flesh?”

If a tat is a paper cut, a brand is severing a limb.

Jesus.

The pain makes sweat dot my brow. I have to take my mind off this.

So instead… I think of Anissa.

The woman who betrayed my family. The woman who’s mine.

Anissa fucking Laurent.

The runaway. The ghost. The girl who managed to slip the noose off her neck and vanish into thin air like a goddamn myth. But my mind is a vault of every detail I’ve gathered over the years I’ve tracked her.

Sister to Polina Kopolova, my pakhan’s wife. Both of them pawns in a brutal game of life and death, and neither knew of the other’s existence. Anissa still doesn’t.

She’s sometimes blonde, sometimes auburn, sometimes short or dyed black. Her eyes are a striking blue but cold. Always analyzing. Watching. She looks at the world as if it’s a threat to her.

I want to be the one who makes her look that way.

Her mouth—full lips that smirk like she knows every secret you’ve ever kept, smug because she’s clever enough to wipe out full identities. And just above those pouty lips, she has a birthmark I’m obsessed with. I imagine resting my finger there when I finally have her pinned beneath me.

“The next part is the hardest. Breathe,”Vadka reminds me when he lifts the larger brand, so hot I can see steam rising from it in the cool basement air.

“Fuck,” Rodion says, paling. Maybe he’s the one making the sound like he’s about to vomit. I imagine the satisfying feeling of my fist connecting with his jaw.

I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. The problem is, it isn’t just the pain, but the way the smell of burnt flesh brings back the worst memory of my life, the one I try to bury.

I remember the way the walls of The Cottage basement absorbed the sounds of my brother’s screams, the cement floor slick with his blood. I stood, my arms crossed on my chest as cold decision settled in my veins. My brother betrayed us. I had to watch him die. My younger brother, the one I had protected and half raised, the one who I’d give my own life for, committed the unforgivable sin of betrayal. He traded his blood for a pocket full of promises from our enemies.

And now, I’m hunting down the girl who made betrayal look easy.

She ran from my pakhan,made a mockery of our family, and then joined forces with our enemies. Made the whole world think we were weak.

Just like my brother.

Gleb hung in front of us, wrists raw and bleeding from the cuffs—a living warning of what happens when you break the Vorovskoy Mir, the Thieves’ Code.

“Tell us the three laws you took a vow to,” Rafail said. When we were younger, Rafail acted as the big brother for all of us. He was stern and unyielding, our guide and friend. Now he was our pakhan,the acting leader of our Bratva, the one who called for the execution of his cousin. My brother.

And I vowed I would watch every brutal, soul-tearing second.

I’d failed my younger brother. It was on me to teach him to obey the law of the Bratva. I was the one who taught him how to ride a bike, how to smoke a joint, how to fuck a girl well and good and keep her coming back for more. I was the one who bailed him out when he fucked up, but that night—that night, I was the one who burned his tats from his flesh before he faced the ultimate punishment for his sins against us.

I took a blood vow when I was eighteen years old. And I’ll die before I break it.

Just like Gleb did.

The Thieves’ Code was ironclad:

The Bratva comes before all else.

Never cooperate with the authorities.

Never, ever betray your brothers.

There’s a reason we’re feared, a reason why the mark of the Bratva makes women hold their children closer when we pass and grown men tremble.

“We’re done.”

My eyes fly open. Someone presses a bottle of vodka to my lips. I drink as if I’m dying of thirst. It helps a little.

I sit up straighter. Every cell in my body seems concentrated on my back, the pain carved into my flesh, throbbing, unrelenting. I grip the neck of the bottle and take another swig.

Vadka lists off instructions for healing the brand. I only half hear him.

I spilled my blood and took an oath. Let them brand me. I did what had to be done.

Now, she’s the next step. My offering. My proof of loyalty.

My obsession.

I grit my teeth and think of her.

The runaway. The traitor. My ghost.

The one who ran away from my pakhan but made a fool out of all of us. Rafail has moved on. Thanks to my brother’s folly, Rafail married a woman he thought was Anissa while Anissa ran.

Unpunished.

She’s mine. I’m going to own her. Every inch, every breath, every scream. She doesn’t know it yet, but she already belongs to me.

I can already imagine her gasping beneath me, marked by me. I want to fill her, breed her, make her mine in ways no one can ever undo.

Rafail stands in front of me, feet planted on either side, his arms crossed. He’s dressed in a suit, still wearing his jacket as always.

“I’ll let you know when we have our meeting, Matvei,” Rafail says.

Though Rafail is happily married, Bratva men don’t forget betrayal. Rafail has not forgotten. He knows exactly why the specific date matters. I meet his eyes and nod. “I’ll wait.”

The others look on curiously, but it isn’t time yet to tell them why the dates matter. And Rafail doesn’t give a shit who knows what; he’ll tell them when he’s good and ready.

Even as I’m breathing through my nose, my body throbbing in pain, pride surges in my chest. Ink marks the sign of the Bratva, but branding means something entirely different. And Rafail trusts me.

London.

Perfect. My cousin Semyon has orchestrated a proposal, a coalition of the most powerful crime syndicates in the world, seeking asylum. They all assemble in London. Keenan McCarthy’s Clan from Ireland, now headed by his son. The Rossis from Boston’s Italian mob. The Yakuza and the Cartel. We sought the most dangerous, the most powerful.

Our family represents the Bratva.

The Irish would be there, of course. The McCarthy clan didn’t miss an opportunity like this. But it wasn’t Keenan who bothered me but his fucking rabid dog, O’Rourke. Rumor had it he kept Anissa close. And I don’t fucking like that.

“And from London, you’re heading to Dublin?” Rafail asks in my ear.

I nod.

Now I know why Rafail chose today for my branding. Word will be released that I’ve taken the ultimate step of allegiance. My tats tell a story, but the brand means absolute loyalty, proof that I’ve bled and suffered. Penitence for the crimes my brother committed. A chance to be reborn into Bratva leadership.

Breaking the Vorovskoy Mir is a death sentence. Brutal, slow, and inescapable.

Anissa thought she was clever, sneaking under the radar and flitting from one place to another, changing her identity. But it doesn’t matter if she took an oath or not—she was promised to my Bratva. She ran, and now I’m going to teach her exactly what happens to runaway brides.

She’s not just a target or distraction, a pretty little plaything to take the family name. No. She’s a fucking craving under my skin. I’ll chase her to the ends of the earth if I have to.

She never swore an oath, but she ran from a promise. From my family.

That makes her my responsibility, my obsession. My fucking craving. She’s not just a runaway bride—she’s the girl who made me invisible, and I’m going to burn my name into her skin like this brand is seared into mine.

She doesn’t get to run from us twice.

Everyone but Rafail leaves while I catch my breath. I try to play a mental game to move beyond the pain, but I can’t. So I sit with it and let it consume me.

He holds my gaze. Sometimes, I see my cousin. The guy I grew up with, older, who practically raised me when my parents weren’t around. Other times, I see my pakhan. The ruthless king of the Russian underworld.

My pakhan stands in front of me now.

“I want to give her to you, Matvei,” he says calmly, but the chill in his tone is unmistakable. “You’ve earned her. But make no mistake. If you can’t bring her in alive and under your control… she will be eliminated. If not from us, she’s one of Interpol’s biggest targets.”

Someone whistles behind us. I turn to see Rodion.

“You really think you can tame that one? She’ll slit your throat before she spreads her legs.”

And just like that, my obsession becomes personal. It’s not just about revenge.

I will own her.

After I beat the shit out of Rodion.