The illusion of peace is the most dangerous weapon in a city built on blood.
For seven days following the m******e at the steel mill, that illusion wrapped itself around the glass penthouse like a warm, suffocating blanket. The rival empire was in ashes. Dmitri Volkov was dead. The remaining capos of the criminal underworld had fallen to their knees, kissing the Viper's blood-stained ring, swearing absolute fealty to Kaelen Cross and the woman who stood at his side.
I had spent the week learning the true weight of my crown. Kaelen did not hide me in the shadows anymore. When he held meetings in the sprawling living room of the penthouse, I sat beside him on the leather sofa, his heavy, possessive arm draped over my shoulders. The syndicate bosses didn't just speak to him; they addresse
