Red wine hit my face beneath a thousand glittering crystals, and the laughter that followed felt colder than anything in that ballroom. One second, I was standing beside a marble

Preston Hale sat in the back of a dimly lit, high-end cigar lounge in the West Loop, nursing a glass of scotch he couldn't afford. The bruises to his ego were far worse than any physical beating. In the span of forty-eight hours, his father had stripped him of his trust fund, removed him from the company board, and banned him from the Bellweather Grand.

He had become a laughingstock in his own social circle. The golden boy of Chicago hospitality had been reduced to a beggar, all because he threw a glass of wine at the wrong girl.

As he stared miserably into his glass, a shadow fell over his table.

“Mr. Hale,” a thick, heavily accented voice said. “You look like a man who has lost his kingdom.”

Preston looked up. Standing before him was Sergei Ivanov. Sergei was the underboss of the Ivanov Syndicate, a ruthless Russian faction that controlled the illegal arms trade and human trafficking rings on the city's outskirts. They were the only criminal organization in Chicago foolish enough to openly despise Michael Carter.

“What do you want, Sergei?” Preston muttered, taking a sip of his scotch. “I don't have any money to launder for you anymore. My father cut me off.”

Sergei slid into the leather booth opposite Preston, signaling the bartender for a drink.

“I do not want your money, Preston,” Sergei smiled, a cold, reptilian expression. “I want your access. I hear Michael Carter took a forty percent stake in your Miami resort. He humiliated your family. He stole your birthright. Does that not make you angry?”

Preston’s jaw clenched. “Of course it makes me angry. But Carter is untouchable. You cross him, you die.”

“No man is untouchable,” Sergei leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Michael Carter has a weakness. A beautiful, naive weakness who currently spends her days playing charity worker on the south side. He loves his daughter more than his empire.”

Preston’s eyes widened. “You want to go after Elena? Are you insane? He has guards on her twenty-four-seven. A guy named Russo nearly broke my neck just looking at him.”

“Russo is one man,” Sergei dismissed with a wave of his hand. “My family is preparing a strike to remove Michael Carter from the board entirely. But to draw him out, we need the girl. And to get the girl, we need to know exactly when and where Carter's men are vulnerable.”

“And how am I supposed to know that?” Preston asked, his heart beginning to race.

“Because your father still owns the security contracts for the Bellweather Grand,” Sergei explained smoothly. “Carter is hosting a private sit-down there next week. I need the security override codes for the underground parking garage. Give me the codes, Preston, and when my family takes over the city, we give you your hotel empire back. Free of Carter’s taxes.”

Preston stared at the Russian mobster. It was treason. If Carter found out, Preston would be a dead man. But the thought of regaining his power, of wiping the smug, terrifying look off Michael Carter’s face, was an intoxicating poison.

Preston took a long, slow drink of his scotch.