Chapter 3

Nikolai

She’s fucking stunning.

The thought has plagued my head since I saw her in the foyer. Fucking stunning.

Honestly, when I got the tip that a girl who looked like Derek Finnegan was here, I didn’t think it would be anything. After all, the world is full of dark haired, blue-eyed girls. Plus, everyone believed Steph and her daughter were long dead, most likely at the hands of one of Finnegan’s many enemies, or even Finnegan himself. I wouldn’t put it past the heartless bastard to kill his own flesh and blood.

Fuck Finnegan. Fuck every single person associated with him. Fuck his spawn to hell and back.

I sit in the back of the theater, bored as could possibly be, as the girls on stage fake being humble as pie. These interviews remind me of horses paraded out for breeding, or maybe cows for slaughter. It’s excruciatingly boring.

Even as my eyes glaze over at the latest cookie-cutter answer, my gaze lingers on her.

When I spotted her in the foyer, it was easy to look past her beauty. I couldn’t really see her face beyond the curve of her cheek and full lips, lips begging to be kissed, or better yet, wrapped around a cock. Her body was mostly hidden by her baggy outfit; she looked so out of place, I wasn’t sure if it was really her.

Now, I am.

Gone is the fucking hoodie pulled up to protect her hair. She’s dressed instead in red; it’s a taunt, a signal, a siren song of innocence and sin.

I know the last one well. Innocence, though? I don’t come across it much in my line of work, but there she is, looking like a female version of my nemesis, the man I hate most in the world.

There’s a little of her mother there—the shape of her mouth, her slender curves, the arch of her brows—but it’s not enough to save her. This Rosalind is beautiful and young, but very much Finnegan’s child.

I want to paint her an idiot, a self-centered fool who wants the world to fawn over her looks because she’s too stupid to cultivate anything but beauty. That, however, would be a mistake; perhaps even a dangerous one.

She’s smart. There’s intelligence in her eyes, a calculated coldness that’s all her father. The way she takes in the other contestants. The way she holds her pose with a smile that appears natural and not stiff. The way she stays focused and calm under stress.

This little rose is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Ironically, she may not even know. I’ve searched for years for Finnegan’s ex-wife and kid. They would’ve been the perfect morsels to use, abuse, and destroy. They were to be my sweet revenge for what that fucker did to me and my family. Unfortunately, they disappeared before I had them in my grasp. No one knew where, not even Finnegan, or so the rumors say.

He may have given up on them, but I never did. The Feds did a good job hiding them in plain sight, because it took years for me to get here, to this very moment.

Now, the revenge I crave stands only a few yards away.

I hate Finnegan and how untouchable the bastard is, but I’m not the kind of man to forgive and forget. Some might call me a monster: heartless, cruel. I really don’t give a fuck. I’ve fought hard to rise to the top of the Wilders after my uncle’s death, turned us into the crème de la crème of the underworld. We’re a crime family to be reckoned with, a thorn in Finnegan’s side.

Unfortunately, as powerful as we are, taking him out hurts me, too. So instead, I’ve been waiting for just the right thing to bring him to his knees, make him suffer.

I never thought his daughter would still be—in fact—alive.

Her.

This girl now named Rosalind.

After so much wasted time and money, a two page article in a local paper was all it took.

Now, she is all mine, whether she knows it or not.

As she stands steady, readying to answer the interviewer’s questions, I sit back in my chair and take it all in. My insides buzz with anticipation, but I take a calming breath. I’ll have my moment. I know I will.

“Why do you want to be a beauty queen?” the interviewer asks.

The question almost makes me smile. Mundane as it is, but I bet her answer will be anything but. As those ruby red lips part, I find myself sitting up straighter in my seat.

“To win,” she says.

I huff a laugh. She’s funny, something I didn’t expect from someone her age. She’s what? Twenty-one, almost twenty-two? She’s a rose with hidden thorns—maybe her new name fits her after all.

A murmur runs through the auditorium, and she pauses for a moment, waiting for the noise to die down. I can’t help but notice how she stands apart from her competition. Her hair is an artful tumble of loose curls in coal with an undertone of embers. She looks like she tumbled out of bed, ready to be lured right back into it. And that dress… Fuck me.

It’s pure sex and sensuality. A hint and a tease and… Oh, shit. She’s speaking again.

I lean forward, listening intently.

“To win,” she goes on, raising her voice a little, “shows a person can get to the top using their talents and attributes. I’m not going to say I want to change the world. That’s a given. We all do. I want to be a beauty queen to be noticed, to get the right jobs to reach my goal of being an ambassador.”

I tune out the rest. I’m studying her instead, not her words, and as the questions come, she answers them with confidence, passion, and skill. She doesn’t answer with the false modesty her opponents lay on thick. She’s telling the truth, bold and poised, maybe even foolish. Granted, if she’s lying, she’s good at it.

Very good.

I’ll have to remember that, but now that she’s in my sights, nothing’s going to stop me from getting what I want. Watching her, a new plan starts to bloom and unfurl in my head.

It’s going to be perfect.

Originally, I was going to take them both, torture Steph, and maybe send Finnegan pieces of her in a gift bag, a gruesome reminder of what he did to my aunt and uncle, my only true family besides Rush. I never thought about what I’d do with the kid.

To my dismay, the hippie, Steph, is dead and her daughter named Thorne at birth—now Rosalind—isn’t a kid anymore. Grown, gorgeous, and looking too much like her father. His blood is in her veins; it stains her, marks her. Dooms her.

I get up and straighten my suit just as she steps back to a round of applause. The next girl is called, but I couldn’t give a fuck about the blonde or the competition. I’m here for one thing and one thing only.

Revenge.

Making my way from my seat, I move up the aisle to the exit door through to backstage and step one of my plan. Her beauty makes it much easier than I anticipated. So does the sexual pull to the curve of her hips, the line of her legs, the swell of those tits made to fit into a man’s hand. My hands.

When I’m done with her—if I let her live—she’ll be ruined for everyone after me.

There’s a security guard at the side exit, and I nod to him. He nods back as I slip him a thick envelope filled with cash. His eyes grow big as he palms it.

Of course, he knows who I am. If not who precisely, he knows what I am, the power I hold. My family’s snake and rose emblem embossed on the envelope gives it away. The Wilders have hands in many cookie jars in this city—in politics, law enforcement, underground circles. If he’s smart, he’ll pocket it and let me go without a second glance.

Indicating left with a dip of his head, I walk past him and move quickly down the long, dark hall to the next door. It takes me backstage, where my man, my contact, waits.

I remove another envelope from my inner jacket pocket, the air already stinging with hairspray and perfume.

“Which way?” I ask him, voice low.

He takes the money and slips it into his suit jacket. “Through here and to the right. Jenny will be waiting.”

I raise a brow. “And who’s that?”

He doesn’t answer my question. “You can trust her.”

“Willing to bet your life on that, Priestly?” I grumble under my breath. “I told you, no loose ends. I can’t risk fucking this up.”

His shoulders tense. “I know exactly where she is—Finnegan’s daughter. I’ve tracked down another contestant’s mother. Her daughter was knocked out of the running and wants to help, for the right price. She assures me she won’t say a word.”

“And she has the things I need?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I nod slowly, running my hand across my jaw, my stubble prickly under my fingers. Adding another—an innocent, of all people—increases the risk of this falling through. I figured Priestly would be the one taking me through, not holding open a door.

This better go smoothly; otherwise, I’m not opposed to killing this woman tonight and Priestly after, as useful as he’s proved to be in the past. I don’t tolerate incompetence.

“Very well,” I say to Priestly. “But if she dares try and cross me, your head will roll.”

For a second, there’s a glimmer of panic in his eyes, but then he dips his head in understanding. “She won’t.”

“Let’s hurry this up,” I sigh as I open the door.

It’s darker back here, and the noise from the stage and audience beyond filter in softly. It takes a moment, but I find the blonde, middle-aged woman Priestly’s working with. She picks up a bag walks my way, bumping into me as she pretends to drop it.

Amateur.

I help her pick up the contents of the bag, sliding an envelope of cash inside the moment after I snag a laminated, clip-on badge. “Anything else?”

Her smile is flickers, and when her eyes meet mine, her breath catches with nerves. “No,” she whispers. “No, I think I have everything.”

“Good.” I stand and help her up, her hand clammy in mine. I clip the badge on backwards, hiding her name next to a mag-strip. It’s my ticket to opening any locked doors back here.

“Actually,” I start, grabbing her roughly by the arm, forcing her to focus on me. “I’m looking for a room. One for a more… personal meeting?” Glancing down, I watch as her breathing picks up, and she looks desperately at Priestly for help. “I—uh—”

I jerk her attention back at me. “Surely you know somewhere.”

“Of-Of course I do,” she stammers, and I let her go. “Just down there, to the right. It shouldn’t be in use this late in the day, but—”

“Perfect. Thank you.” I paste on a stiff smile. “I appreciate your help.”

She nods quickly and rushes toward the exit, her bag clutched tightly to her chest. The door swings closed silently behind her, and Priestly gives me one more look before following her lead.

I follow the woman’s directions and find a locked door. I swipe her badge, and it opens. Easy. Inside is small and dark, decorated with only stacked chairs, circular tables, and an old sofa.

I have one shot at this, and it all hinges on the first security guard doing his job: passing my message along to pretty little Rosalind.

She’s integral.

I have one shot to make this happen, and I refuse to fail.

Derek Finnegan will suffer.

I’m going to make sure of it.

And his daughter?

She’ll be the perfect tool for my revenge.