Shattered Crown: A Dark Mafia Age Gap Romance (Kozlov Empire Book 4)

Present Day

I burst onto the balcony, struggling to catch my breath as the French doors slam behind me. The cool night air floods my senses and clears my head—a welcome break from the cloying perfumes and vodka shots filling the wedding reception.

I press a hand to my racing heart, the lace fabric of my gown harsh against my skin. One breath, then another.

It’s done. I’m officially a Belov.

We went right from the cathedral to the glitzy reception held in Moscow’s finest hotel, a who’s who of the country’s elite milling about, satisfied they got an invite to the event of the year.

I didn’t invite anyone, no friends or family. What’s the point of anyone I’m close to witnessing this charade of a marriage?

Away from curious eyes, I find a stone bench against the wall and sit down, drawing deep breaths and giving in to the vulnerability I’ve avoided since saying ‘I do’.

I may be impulsive and hot-headed—Alyona and my brothers would certainly agree, especially if they knew why I really married Maxim—but in this, I’m resolute. I’ve spent the last few years quietly chasing leads on Masha’s killer, and none of them were solid. This is the first time all the cards line up.

A tremor of cold runs up my spine, not because of the night’s chill but because of a movement in the far corner of the balcony.

“Is someone here?” I shoot up to a standing position. A near panic attack is a bad look for a bride.

I don’t see anything, just sense it, until a single flame pierces the darkness. It ignites the end of a cigar, followed by an inhale and the wisp of smoke that fades into the night.

And then an achingly familiar voice—deep and powerful, and one I’ve come to hate—says, “Was it really that bad?”

My husband.

I’m quiet for a moment before I answer. “Being trotted around like a show pony? What every girl dreams of on her wedding day, no?”

He’s still bathed in shadows, a halo of smoke surrounding him, but I hear his soft chuckle. The only soft thing about him. “It comes with the territory of being my wife. Isn’t that what you wanted? If I recall correctly, you suggested marriage, not the other way around.”

“Yes, but…” The words die on my lips.

Maxim rises like a phoenix out of the flames, and same as every time I see him, my heart stutters in my chest. Only his profile comes into the light, the sharp contours of his jawline and the slight curve of his lips casting a striking silhouette. This alone is enough to make grown women weep. My new husband might be a psychopath, but he’s the very definition of rugged male beauty.

I clear my throat and try again. “I saw a business opportunity, and I took it. Alyona didn’t want to be part of your world, and I didn’t want to see her dragged in kicking and screaming, and miserable, when I knew I would be much better suited to rule by your side.”

He advances on me, all traces of his charming public persona wiped away.

I step back because having Maxim this close short-circuits my brain. I swallow hard and look up at the man I’m bound to for life. Or at least until I murder him.

But I won’t kill Maxim until I know exactly what he did and why.

“Ah, yes. A business opportunity.” He takes a puff of his cigar and blows a ring over my head. “In that case, shouldn’t we work out the terms of our agreement?”

There’s something in his tone that catches me off guard. A shiver runs down my spine.

You’d think I would have spent time negotiating the terms of our agreement, but right after agreeing to the marriage, Maxim allowed me a month before settling in Moscow by his side. I spent most of the time in Brooklyn, packing up my apartment and sorting out my affairs, not reaching out to anyone I know because they’d have questions I didn’t want to answer.

I swallow hard. “I agree. We need to talk.” I look behind me through the glass doors at the party still in full swing. “But, right now?”

He flicks a wrist dismissively. “Our guests will wait.”

Ideally, access to his business would be the best way for me to investigate his connections, alliances, enemies—anything that can shed light on his past involvement with the Antonov Bratva, particularly if he owed my father any favors. What motivates him—is it money, power, retribution? Beyond business magnate, beyond being the man that Russia’s crime syndicates report to, who is he really?

A little late for that.

Apart from the few public details, all I know is that he’s nearly twice my age, my best friend’s biological father, and he was married at one time. That juicy tidbit, he confided in Alyona.

I swallow hard, my throat feeling dry and tight. “I’d like to help run your syndicate business. As you know, I’ve been involved in the Kozlov Bratva for several years and⁠—”

“I wanted Alyona—my daughter, my heir—to help lead my empire. That’s not what I require from you.” He tilts his head, assessing me quietly. “What I need from you is a society wife. Host parties, involve yourself in charities, attend events with me, look good on my arm⁠—”

“What!” Anger presses down on my shoulders. “You’re looking for a trophy wife? To throw dinner parties and look hot? You could have mentioned that earlier.”

“I never said anything about dinner parties.” His voice is as dry as paper.

I don’t know whether to laugh or punch him. He leans in, the close proximity forcing me to tilt my head up to meet his dark blue orbs. A flicker of unease drips down my spine because Maxim, up close and personal, is intimidating as fuck.

“This is a business arrangement, Kira, and in business, I always do what’s best for me.”

I stomp a foot. “I am capable of much more than shopping and hosting parties. Surely, you see my value as something more than a Stepford wife.”

He stills, nostrils flaring as he runs a thumb down the center of his lips. “A few hours ago, you pledged to obey me. Are you breaking your vows already? Because I don’t think you’ll like the consequences of disobeying me.” His lips curl up at the corner but not in a friendly way.

His threat burrows under my skin, making my collar feel like a noose. I take a step back and suck in a full breath. “You wanted Alyona in your business, so why not me?”

‘Because my circumstances have changed.” With deliberate precision, Maxim grinds his cigar into a nearby ashtray, ensuring every ember is extinguished before his eyes cut back to mine. “As you know, my business interests are … varied.” I take that to mean legal and not-at-all legal. “We’re having some trouble with a powerful triad based in Hong Kong, and things are about to get messy. I don’t need bad press complicating matters, so I’m feeding them a juicy story to ensure they’re distracted.”

Realization dawns slowly. ‘I’m the story. We’re the story.’ Moscow’s most eligible bachelor off the market is what headline dreams are made of. It certainly explains the media covering our wedding—something I wasn’t entirely prepared for.

“I think you understand now.”

My mouth opens and closes, then opens again. “You … you misled me. I thought I was going to be your partner, not just a pretty distraction.” Heat blooms under my collar, and yet I don’t know why I’m the least bit surprised. Maxim is as slippery as they come.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Perhaps you should have clarified the terms before you suggested marriage.”

I take a deep, calming breath and assess the situation. Fighting him will get me nowhere—he’s as impenetrable as steel. If Maxim wants a society wife, fine, but it won’t stop me from learning what I need to.

“You’re right. I should have.” The soft light from the ballroom dances across the sharp angles of his face. It seems like a cruel joke that a man this hot could also be so damn cold. “But here we are. Let’s set the terms now. I’ll be what you need me to be—I’ll throw the parties and the dinners, and play the part of a perfect wife, but in return, I want you to take me seriously. In time, I want an expanded role in your world, one with real power.”

That smirk, which I’ve already come to loathe, curls his lips. “Your role will be expanded,” he says, catching me off-guard. I’m pleasantly surprised until he finishes the thought. “You’ll bear me children. Did you forget so soon, Kira? When you offered yourself up as my bride, you promised me heirs.”

My promise in the wine cellar comes back to haunt me. It was never a promise I intended to keep. I’d consider having kids someday, but certainly not with this monster. Still, I’ll let him believe I’m willing, long enough to learn what I need to.

“I didn’t forget, but I need time.” My mind spins out, trying to grasp onto a length of time that seems reasonable. “One month. Give me one month to settle into your world, and then we can … we can…” The words stick in my throat, and for some reason, it seems to amuse Maxim. “Start a family. But before then, there will be no physical relationship between us. Sleep with whomever you want. I don’t care. Between us, it’s strictly business.”

I’m no prude. I like sex. No, scratch that—I love it. I usually have plenty of it in the form of one-night stands and temporary flings, but I’ll never sleep with my aunt’s killer.

“Good to know that I have your blessing, but just so we’re clear, I don’t need it. I take what I want, when I want it.” He grasps my chin, our gazes clashing. His thumb skates deliberately over my jaw. “I’m not extending the same permission to you.” His grip on my chin tightens ever so slightly, his eyes burning with a possessive intensity. ‘I never want to hear of another man touching, no less looking your way. Business arrangement or not, I don’t share what’s mine.”

My head snaps back, disgusted by his alpha-hole chauvinism. He may be the consummate politician in public, but he doesn’t maintain the gentleman’s façade with me. “One month,” he rasps. “That’s all the time I’ll give you.”

“Great, then we understand each other.” I rip my chin from his hold, desperate to regain my composure. Balling my hands into fists, my eyes flick towards the French doors.

Inside, the party continues to celebrate in our honor. The guests are happy to toast our supposed wedded bliss, lost in the illusion of a love story that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“We should get back to our wedding,” I tell him. Not because I want to, but because plastering on a fake smile and shaking hands is easier than staring at him any longer.

His strong hand circles my wrist, and the heat from his grip sends an unexpected jolt through me.

“One month.” His words ghost over the shell of my ear, and then he’s gone.

A month. That’s all the time I have to figure out what involvement he had in my aunt’s murder. After that, my hands will either be soaked in his blood after I take my revenge, or… Well, the alternative is bleak. I’ll be six feet underground.

Because one thing is for certain: crossing Maxim Belov is a death sentence.