Crown of Hate (Soulless Empire)

Chapter 1

1

ALYA

The man sitting across from me has an empty eye socket and a smile that makes my skin crawl.

I wedge my sweaty hands between my thighs, willing them to stop trembling. My shoulders ache as I force them back, a pathetic attempt at bravery.

Don’t show fear. Don’t let him see you’re terrified .

But I am. I’m terrified because I know men like him. I know how they feast on fear, how they twist it into a weapon. I know because I was raised by one.

This man isn’t my papa, though. No, this is Akim Petrov. My papa’s best friend.

Well, former best friend.

I’m still not sure if he had anything to do with my papa’s death, but it doesn’t matter. It’s betrayal enough knowing that he works for his replacement. The new Pakhan, king of the Russian underworld, Boris Gusinsky.

Akim’s single eye dissects me as if I’m a prized cow up for auction. “My, how you’ve blossomed,” he purrs, leaning back in his seat and taking a drag of his cigar. A plume of smoke gushes from his mouth, choking the air around us. “Ripe for the picking, I’d say. The perfect age to become a wife…”

My stomach flips, but I resist the urge to cringe visibly at the word wife. I can almost sense the predator in him sizing me up for a potential seventh wife. I’ve heard the rumors—his latest ex-wife, discarded like yesterday’s trash for the capital sins of being too old and boring. And now here I am, fresh meat for the beast.

Fuck that. I would rather die than be married to someone like him—or anyone else, for that matter.

“Cut the crap, Akim. Why are you here?” I try not to croak.

If Akim dragged himself all the way from Russia to Chicago, then it’s definitely not for idle chit-chat over coffee. He has something up his sleeve. I can feel it.

He looks me up and down, as if no one has ever dared to use that tone with him. Then he chuckles sardonically, huffing a cloud of smoke in the air. “Feisty. Just like your mother in her younger days.”

Mama .

The mention of her name slices through me. Feisty doesn’t even begin to describe her. She was a force of nature, unstoppable and full of life, until stage three cervical cancer waged war on her body a year ago. It’s been a waking nightmare ever since, living with the thought that I could lose the only family I have left.

I’d do anything to see her healthy again.

Anything.

“Is that why you’re here?” I lift a brow. “To talk about my mother?”

“No.” He straightens up, snuffing out his cigar before getting down to business. “I’m here for something more important. I need you to deliver a message for me.”

An icy shiver prickles my skin. This is it. Whatever game he’s playing, I’m about to be thrown into the middle of it.

“What message?” I ask. “And to who?”

“The message is confidential. Your eyes aren’t meant for it.”

I hold my tongue, waiting for an answer to my second question.

He clears his throat. “It’s for Mikhail Zhirkov.”

The name hits me like a punch to the gut. Mikhail Zhirkov. My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. A roaring fills my ears as memories flood back.

I laugh, but it’s harsh and mirthless. “You want me to deliver a message to the Mikhail Zhirkov?”

The most terrifying man in Chicago. A king who stole his throne… then lost it all.

My papa’s murderer.

Akim nods, his face impassive.

“The hell I will,” I grumble. “If you have something to say to him, do it yourself.”

“I’m not asking, Alya,” he states calmly.

“You don’t have to. I’m not going anywhere near Mikhail.” I leap to my feet and cross my arms. It’s a flimsy shield against the storm I know is coming, but it’s all I have. “I want you out of here. Now. Take your message and shove it.”

Akim rises slowly, prowling towards me like a wolf closing in on its prey. I back away instinctively, my body reacting before my mind can catch up. I only stop when the back of my legs hit the couch behind me.

Trapped.

His hand shoots out, vice-like fingers digging into my chin. “Listen here, you little brat. You will do exactly as I say,” he snarls, mask of civility finally breaking. His breath is hot on my face, reeking of cigars. “Daddy’s rotting in the ground, and you’re no longer a princess. You’re nothing but a filthy whore. And a good whore will do whatever dirty work I need her to do.”

Ice coats my veins as I stare back at him. I’m trying to hold onto my bravado, but it’s slipping through my fingers like sand. My body betrays me. I’m trembling, and I can feel a bead of sweat trickling down my temple.

Don’t let him see how scared you are. Don’t give him that satisfaction.

“Let. Me. Go.” Each word is a struggle, forced out through gritted teeth.

His grip tightens. “You will be a good little whore and deliver my message to Mikhail tomorrow. Do you understand me?”

Summoning every ounce of courage, I spit my words directly in his face. “Go to hell, Akim. I won’t do your dirty work.”

His eye narrows threateningly, and then a cruel smile twists his lips. “Bold of you. It would be a real shame if something were to… disrupt your mother’s cancer treatments.”

My blood curdles. “You can’t do that!”

The wicked smirk deepening on his face is all the response I need to know Akim would do that and even worse. He could kill both me and Mama in a heartbeat if he wanted to. And Boris would probably thank him for taking out the trash.

My resistance crumbles like ash. “Okay,” I choke out, hating the desperation in my voice. Hating myself for giving in. “I’ll… I’ll do it. Whatever you want. Just don’t hurt my mother.”

“Now that’s a good little whore,” he sneers, shoving me away like I’m something he scraped off his shoe. “See how easy that was?”

I stumble back, my eyes stinging with tears. I never had a chance. With men like this, you never do.

But I don’t care what happens to me. I’m fine as long as Mama is safe. I’d walk through fire for her. I’d face a thousand Akims. I’d even face Mikhail himself.

Which is exactly what I’m about to do.

Things weren’t like this when Papa was alive. He made sure we were well-protected and taken care of. No one would dare treat me like this if… if Mikhail didn’t kill him.

It’s his fault. It’s all Mikhail’s fault.

The thought burns through me, a hatred so intense it makes me dizzy. I cling to it, letting it fuel me. It’s better than the fear. Better than the despair.

“What’s the message?” I manage to ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Akim pulls out his phone, fingers dancing across the screen. Moments later, the doors fly open and a man in a black suit appears. Akim signals him to give me something, and he does: a white envelope sealed with his stamp.

I inspect it, then drag my gaze back to Akim. “What’s inside?”

He rubs his chin, savoring his power over me. “A letter. For Mikhail’s eyes only.”

A letter. One little envelope, and it feels like I’m holding a live grenade.

I brush my thumb over the brown seal, mind racing. Why trust me with this? What’s Akim’s endgame here? It’s hard to shake off the feeling that he’s up to something. Something that involves me.

“I’ll do it,” I choke the words out past the lump in my throat. “But I swear if anything happens to my mother...”

“You’ll what?” Akim laughs, but it sounds more like gravel in a blender. “You’re not in a position to make threats, girl.” Without sparing me another glance, he turns and strides to the white double doors, every step dripping with disdain.

“Wait! I don’t know where he lives,” I call after him. “How am I supposed to deliver this?”

“You’ll get his address tonight,” he says over his shoulders. Then he’s gone, his bodyguard right behind him.

I collapse onto the couch, clenching the envelope. My fingers itch to tear it open, to take a peek at what’s inside. But that’s the least of my problems right now.

Tomorrow, I’m taking a trip straight into the bowels of hell to meet the devil himself.

I need to be prepared. For anything. Because if I fail, it’s not just my life on the line. It’s Mama’s too. And that thought terrifies me more than anything Mikhail Zhirkov could ever do to me.

“Going somewhere?”

Shit. Busted.

I bite my lip and turn to face Mama, fighting the urge to crumble at the sight of her. She’s so fragile now – pale face, bald head, clutching a cup of hot chocolate and a piece of toast like they’re her lifelines. The contrast to her once vibrant self is gut-wrenching.

“Um—” My brain scrambles for a plausible lie. “I’m meeting someone.”

Thank God she wasn’t home for Akim’s little visit yesterday. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about it. She would never let me go if she knew. She’d put her life on the line to defend me from Akim.

No way in hell I’m letting that happen.

She scrunches her face, skepticism etched in every line. “Who’s so important they’re worth missing breakfast for?”

“Just a friend from college.”

Mama’s eyes narrow, her lips pursing in a way that I’m sure she knows I’m not telling her the truth. “On a Tuesday morning?”

There it is. “Yeah. It’s just… a study group thing.”

“A study group? During summer break? Alya, honey, what’s really going on?”

My heart races. God I hate this. I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. “It’s nothing, Mama. We’re just catching up on some work before classes start again.”

Ugh… The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Mama and I have always shared everything—our dreams, our fears, even our most embarrassing moments. Now I’m spinning tales like I’ve never done before. It’s eating me up inside to keep her in the dark. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

If I survive this nightmare, I’ll need to come up with one heck of a story. Who knew I’d develop a talent for deception alongside my college degree.

Mama’s face softens. Phew… she bought it. “Alright. But you’re not leaving this house without eating first.” She sets a plate of toast and eggs on the dining table, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Sit. Eat.”.

Not wanting to upset her, I march over to the dining area and settle into the chair, feeling every bit of Mama’s watchful gaze.

The toast scratches my mouth like sandpaper, and the hot chocolate that’s usually my comfort drink now sits heavy in my stomach.

Each tick of the clock on the wall feels like a countdown to disaster. I’m hyper-aware of my every move, terrified that if I let my guard slip for even a moment, she’ll see right through my facade.

That’s why, when I shove the last of the food down my throat, I grab my purse, plant a quick kiss on her cheeks, and practically bolt out of the house. It isn’t until I’m seated in my car with the door shut tightly that I take a full breath. And only then do I let the tears flow freely, hot and relentless.

I give myself exactly one minute of weakness. Sixty seconds to fall apart.

“Be strong,” I whisper to myself, wiping away the tears. “Do this for Mama. Do this to survive.”

Just like Akim said yesterday, I got a text with Mikhail’s address on it. Punching it into Google Maps, I sling on my seatbelt, ignite the engine, and drive off.

As I drive, the city passes by in a blur. I crank up the radio, humming along to the songs, desperate to pretend everything is fine—but really, all I want to do is ram my car into oncoming traffic and just end it all. Anything to escape what’s about to happen.

But I could never do that to my mama.

And Mikhail is the one who should die, not me.

An hour later, a dazzling white mansion catches my eye on the horizon. It gleams so brilliantly that I have to squint against its radiance.

This has to be it. Mikhail’s lair.

I bring the car to a stop in front of the imposing, iron-wrought gate. And immediately, one of the security men walks up to me, his gun pointed at the car, ready to shoot if I so much as twitch wrong.

My stomach knots with anxiety, yet I manage to stay composed. I’m not dying here today. I quickly raise my hands and call out from the car window. “I have a message for Mikhail Zirkhov.”

His eyes flicker between me and the envelope in my hand. Whether he believes me or not, his expression doesn’t show. “Who are you?”

“Alya Varkov.” My spine steels and there’s a flame of rage burning in my chest as I add, “Tell him it’s the daughter of Vladimir Varkov, the man he killed.”

The guard pulls out his phone and makes a call, speaking in Russian. He doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second, nor do the men behind him. Whatever he’s saying, I don’t understand a word. There weren’t many Russian speakers where I grew up in Chicago.

Finally, he hangs up and glares at me. “Follow me.”

I follow him inside. It’s a long walk to the manor building, and as much as I want to, I try not to gawk at the obscene display of wealth. The driveway is lined with extravagant flowers and statues of angels - some smiling serenely, others weeping. How fitting.

My heart threatens to burst from my chest as we reach the entrance and climb the staired porch. The door opens, and another man emerges. This one is built like a brick wall and just as friendly. He skewers me with a look of pure hatred, and I can tell he’s killed me a dozen times in his mind already.

Still, I match his glare, fury bubbling in my veins. He’s got no right to look at me like that, not when his boss has my papa’s blood on his hands. Fuck, I’d kill him if I could. I’d kill all of them.

“Alya Varkov.” He spits my name as if it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. “Follow me.”

The security guys leave, and I follow Mr. Sunshine inside. The grand entrance hall swallows me whole. Marble floors gleam beneath my feet, probably polished by the tears of Mikhail’s enemies. Towering columns seem to stretch up endlessly to the ceiling, while ornate chandeliers hang from above, their light casting a warm glow over the velvet drapes and ornamental furniture. My eyes dart from corner to corner, each stuffed with lavish decorations and expensive artwork.

Mikhail’s wealth is legendary. It’s amazing how much money you can pocket during a short stint as shadow Pakhan after offing the competition.

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. I shove the rage down deep as we enter what must be the living area.

And there he is. The monster himself.

Mikhail Zirkhov.

He’s sprawled on one of the couches, legs crossed, looking for all the world like he owns the planet. A vicious smile slashes through his face as his pristine blue eyes lock onto mine.

He’s… not what I expected. At all.

For all these years, I’ve pictured some twisted old ghoul, a physical manifestation of evil. But the man before me?

Hell, he might be the most irresistibly handsome creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.

His dark hair is artfully tousled, framing a face that belongs on a billboard. And that jaw could cut diamond. The suit he’s wearing is fighting a losing battle against broad shoulders and biceps that threaten to split the seams.

“Ms. Varkov?” He calls my name like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, like he’s savoring every letter. “We finally meet.”

And his voice… dear God. It’s a smoky baritone that vibrates through my bones, tinged with the barest hint of a Russian accent. It steals my breath from my lungs.

Fucker.

He tilts his head, and this time, the smile playing on his lips is pure sin. His hungry gaze rakes over me, leaving me feeling naked and exposed. Then he gestures to a chair positioned across from him. “Come. Have a seat.”

I bite back a scoff. As if I’d willingly sit and chat with him after what he did. I’d much rather put a bullet between those pretty blue eyes. “No.” I hold up the envelope, my shield and my mission. “I’m not here to chat. I’m here to deliver a message. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Bring it to me.” His tone is all command.

I want to tell him exactly where he can shove his orders. But that will only provoke him. I’m in his home right now, surrounded by his men. He could kill me without breaking a sweat or mussing that perfect hair. So, despite the rebellion simmering in my gut, I force myself to approach, envelope outstretched.

His fingers brush mine as he reaches for it, and my body short-circuits. Electricity crackles up my arm, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

I yank my hand back, gasping for air.

What the fuck was that?