Another swift swipe of my gold-plated sword, and the man was no longer a man, anatomically speaking. And when I brought his pretty bride in to see him one last time, I demonstrated all the ways he would never enjoy her again, brutally fucking every hole her body had to offer, all less than a couple feet from him. His eyelids were stapled open, forcing him to watch as she abandoned their vows and trembled with release on top of my teenaged cock while I viciously pounded in and out of her.

Then, as my family members—both blood and sworn by oath—had their way with her in the next room, I brought my blade to the cock-less bastard’s throat and whispered the words “Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned” in Russian as I sliced him from ear to ear.

The entire warehouse erupted in cheers and applause as the shestyorkas, the lowest associates in my father’s brigade, rushed in to clean up the bloody mess before our women and my school friends arrived for the actual birthday party.

I may have been born into the powerful Kabinov family by chance, but I would die Bratva—in the brotherhood—by choice.

That was over eighteen years ago, and though I’m now third in line to rule one of the most powerful organized crime rings in the world, a lot changes when a boy becomes a man. No longer am I interested in spending time filleting the scum of the earth or fucking tainted whore pussy. No. I don’t waste my time on that shit anymore. I’m saving my wrath for the day the man responsible for the murder of my wife and my brother, as well as a handful of others in my family, stands before me to answer for what he’s done.

And with the Lord above and the Demon below as my witnesses, I swear once I get my hands on him, Vincent Ricci is going to wish with every fiber of his being that I was still that fourteen-year-old boy who didn’t know what it was like to have the most precious thing in the world taken from him. A boy who didn’t know the fierce agony and mind-controlling rage that comes along with losing the person you love most.

The boss of the powerful Ricci Family of Chicago may have been able to evade me and my brothers for the last two years, but finally, I have the one thing he desires most of all. The one thing that will make him vulnerable, careless and irresponsible.

And she is currently bound to my bed.

Staring down at her as she sleeps soundly, knocked out from whatever drug that crazy red-headed bitch gave her, I can’t help but notice the resemblance of her to my Darya. Moi miliy kotik—moi Darya.

Porcelain skin. Thick, dark lashes resting peacefully on her high, prominent cheekbones. Rosy lips so full and lush they beg to be kissed. I’m almost scared to see her with her eyes open. Will she have those same blue sapphires that can . . .

I stand up abruptly from the bedside chair and step toward the window, peering out at the waves as they lap relentlessly along the rocky Pacific Coast, laughing at myself for the absurd thoughts. Now is not the time to think about lashes or lips or eye color. Now is not the time to adulate over my prisoner—this American Princess, as they call her.

She is only the means to an end.

Because now is the time for revenge.

Earlier that day . . .

DEAD CAR BATTERY AT LUNCH. CHECK. Late to afternoon meeting due to a dead car battery. CHECK. CHECK. Lost cell phone somewhere between my office, the parking garage, and the afternoon meeting I was late to, because of the dead car battery. CHECK. CHECK. Motherfucking CHECK.

Today definitely hasn’t shaped up the way I imagined, and if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s Friday, I’d probably be ready to kill someone right now as I sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the dreaded 101 at rush hour. I hate when shit doesn’t go as planned. I check the clock on the dashboard for the eighth time in the last ten minutes, and well, shit really isn’t going as fucking planned right now.

I’d wasted a ridiculous amount of time standing around, waiting for the mechanic from the Mercedes dealership to get my car running again. Then, even more as I’d dealt with the overly helpful, please-take-me-home-and-fuck-me-eyed co-ed working at the Apple store, who took nearly an hour to get my phone replaced and loaded with all my previous settings. I’m finally on my way home, ready to start the weekend with my sweet girl . . . who still hasn’t returned my phone call or my text. What is it about today?

Reaching for the phone lying in the passenger seat, I press my thumb against the small circular button, and the black screen confirms I haven’t missed any messages or calls. I grunt my displeasure as I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles turning purple first, then stark white. Blake knows damn well I worry if she doesn’t get back to me promptly. And since I know she should be in her car, driving to my house right now, there’s absolutely no reason she hasn’t called or texted me back in the last twenty minutes. I have half a mind to bend her over my knee and spank her cute little ass when I see her tonight.

By the time I pull into the driveway of my Spanish-style Calabasas home, my stomach is tangled in a knot of unease. It’s been over an hour, and still no word from Blake. This isn’t like her at all, and even though her self-destructive episodes have been less frequent in the past few weeks, there’s still a chance one can be triggered at any time or any place. The thought of her in that state somewhere, vulnerable to others or when she’s driving, makes my blood run ice cold. She could be in danger or seriously hurt.

No! I tell myself as I exit the car and bound up the walkway, refusing to think the worst. I bet something simple has happened, like her phone battery died and she forgot her car charger at home. I’m sure she’s on her way here right now, stuck on the highway with the thousands of other commuters eager to start their weekend as I just was.

Unlocking the door and striding inside, I continue to try to convince myself she’ll be here in a little while. Just like she’s been every weekend for the last couple of months. I’m simply overreacting . . . allowing the domineering, protective nature I have with her to overrule rational sensibility. Yes, Madden, you’re fucking overreacting. Chill the fuck out.

I do my best to push aside my apprehension and quickly scan the note from my housekeeper, Sarah, about how to heat up the dinner she’s prepared and left in the fridge. Snickering at the last line that reminds me to turn the oven off, I swipe a beer from the top shelf and head upstairs to shower and change clothes. My sweet girl should be here by the time I’m finished.

For the past six years—before I met Blake—weekends held no charm for me. After being fast-tracked into the role of CEO at Decker Enterprises due to my father’s poor health, I found I preferred to be at the office, focusing on the development and expansion of our family business much more than I enjoyed being home alone. Sure, I’d go out and meet my brother and some friends at a bar often enough. I’d have a few drinks then usually end up leaving with a random pretty face, but it always felt like that was what I was supposed to be doing, not what I wanted to be doing.

Now that the weekend means I get to spend three straight nights with Blake, my countdown for Friday night starts the minute she leaves my house Monday morning. How we got here so fast, I’m not really sure, nor do I care. And despite my initial intentions, I’ve most definitely fallen for her. Hard. It’s the most natural thing I’ve ever experienced.

But every time I start to say those three little words—to tell her how much and how deeply I feel about her, and how much she means to me—she finds a way to interrupt me, as if she’s not quite ready for the heaviness of them quite yet. So, I wait, worried I’ll send her running away if I push. The first thing she needs to realize is she’s worthy of being loved, which is what I’m working so diligently on now.