MAVIS

fuck yourself and your mother."

Mavis bit at the rope shoved into her mouth, thrashing against the thick ties that restrained her to the kitchen counter.

The men sitting at the table, smoking and playing poker, only chuckled among themselves.

"My mother is dead," said one of them.

"Then I hope you fuck her in her grave, tu puta madre."

"Maybe I'll fuck you instead," another muttered.

"Come a little fucking closer and I'll fuck you up!"

Honestly, Mavis was running out of insults. She hoped Ace would get here soon.

A day―Mavis had been here for what felt like a day. She'd woken up on this kitchen counter, like a piece of meat to be admired, and spent her time swearing at the mobsters nearby.

The truth was, Mavis felt terrified.

What would it be like, seeing Evan Powell after seven years?

He had been her first love. She had loved him and―

He had been the first one to hit her. Her stomach. He had never cared about Isla, about Mavis, so why start now? Why not make another fucking heir?

Why now? Why Isla?

And Mavis . . . didn't know how she would react. How she would feel at the sight of Evan.

More than that, she was scared she would freeze. That she wouldn't know what to do―say.

Please, Ace. Wherever you are . . . hurry.

Mavis didn't know when it had gotten to the point where she trusted Ace like this. Wholeheartedly, without reason, without logic.

But she knew Ace would come for her.

Would kill everyone in her way.

Now, Mavis was left wondering when that had become so romantic to her.

"Finally! The bitch shut up."

A chorus of laughter erupted over the poker table.

Mavis narrowed her eyes. She recognized some of them―friends of Evan's, back when they had been teenagers. Kids, really.

The Mafia.

She should have guessed. Realized―Evan's family didn't run the oil industry, but the mob.

But she had only been fifteen then.

Now, she was twenty-one.

And she'd be damned if Evan got her or Isla.

She had spent these past seven years working her ass off to make ends meet. And Evan wanted Isla now? He wanted her to be the boss of the American Mafia one day?

No, he could fuck himself and his mother.

Mavis would die before she let him have her.

Somewhere past the kitchen, a bell rang.

A little tinkling bell―like the sound of someone entering a shop.

The pizzeria.

Mavis had caught a glimpse of the pizzeria hours ago. It wasn't far, just on the other wall of this kitchen. Maybe if she screamed loud enough, a customer would hear her.

She opened her mouth, but―

A familiar, icy female voice said, "I would like to order a pineapple pizza."

And a bright, excited voice added, "Pineapple and broccoli pizza."

Whoever was running the pizzeria seemed confused. Probably at the sight of a seven-year-old asking to be let into the Mafia's hideout.

And, within a minute, the young Peruvian cashier had popped into the kitchen near Mavis.

"Leo, there's a little girl asking for the special order."

"What kind of little girl, Enrique? Is she a nice brunette? Small tits? 'Cause that's Erica, not a little―"

"No, a little girl. Maybe seven or eight."

"Kill her," said one of the mobsters immediately.

Mavis stilled.

But another mobster at the table paused thoughtfully. "Maybe she really does want pineapple and broccoli pizza."

"Then you should definitely kill her."

Mavis couldn't help it. The word "No" wrenched out of her so forcefully every single mobster in the room turned to look at her.

Now, the grey-haired mobster named Leo turned serious.

"Bring her in, Enrique," he ordered. "That must be her daughter. The boss will be pleased."

"Are you sure?" A sheen of sweat glistened on Enrique's forehead. "She's with that blonde―"

As soon as he said blonde, the entire room quieted.

And then exploded into whispering.

"You don't mean―"

"The Russian―"

"Not the Morozova girl―"

"The blonde bitch―"

A sound like a bang drew the room's attention. Enrique, standing in the doorway, had opened his mouth to speak.

"Spit it out, boy!" said one of the mobsters in a cigarette-weathered rasp.

Enrique fell face-forward to the ground.

At the back of his head, Mavis saw a bullet wound.

And like an unholy angel of vengeance, silhouetted in the golden light of the pizzeria, blonde hair glowing like a halo, Ace smiled.

"There you are," Mavis breathed.

Should I be turned on right now?

"Hello, moya dorogava," said Ace.

From behind her, Isla's voice piped up, "Hi, Mama!"

The men in the room were stunned for less than a second, but it was all Ace needed.

And as Ace began to fight, Mavis was reminded again of what she was.

Every damn time, she moved like lethal grace and sacred wrath. She was beautiful in the way winter was beautiful, and Mavis had loved snow since she was a child.

All seven of the men were dead before they could put down their cards.

The two bouncers at the door didn't even have time to blink.

And then―through a back door―one man appeared.

The only bloodstain on Ace was a fleck of red on her upper lip, and she smeared that away now as she beheld Evan Powell.

Mavis lost all the breath in her lungs. And she didn't even realize it was Isla―with her sword―who had slashed away the ropes tying her down.

She was already moving before she could stop herself.

So much for freezing.

She didn't slap him. No, Ace had taught her well.

The look on his face was derisive. Condescending. He wasn't expecting much from her.

But it made her glow with pleasure when her uppercut sent him reeling back.

One hand cupping his face, he flexed his jaw. Grimaced.

"Mavis?" As though he couldn't believe it was her.

"Damn straight," she growled.

"You . . . punched me." Disbelief. Sheer disbelief.

"You fucking deserved it, chupamedias."

Evan Powell, her first love. No longer fifteen, but twenty-one.

He was . . . more handsome than she remembered. Wavy black hair. Olive skin. Turquoise eyes. He was tall, too, much larger than six feet. He towered above her, and with one hand, he gripped her wrist.

"Don't tell me what I deserve, whore."

"You kidnapped me and you have the audacity to call me a whore?" Mavis raised her fist to strike him again, but he grabbed her other hand.

"I heard what you did for a living," he said, turquoise eyes flashing with anger. "Selling your body."

"I danced."

"That wasn't American ballet," he sneered.

"It was still dancing." Why were there hot, sudden tears pricking her eyes? Why was this hurting her so much? "I did what I had to."

Behind her, Mavis heard Ace say, "Let go of her now before I sever the hands from your body."

Evan's attention turned to Ace. And it slowly sank in―the remnants of the room. The corpses splayed on the poker table.

"You did this."

"That's my wife," Mavis said proudly. "And she'll fuck you up."

"Yes," said Ace coldly. "I will fuck you up."

It took him too long to put it together. The blonde hair. The destruction of nine men in a matter of minutes.

"The Russian's secret weapon," Evan said, letting go of Mavis. His eyes had lit up. "Here. This close to me."

Isla said, "What are you, a fangirl?"

And again, his attention slid to her. The tiny figure with the sword, her curly brown hair tangled over her shoulders. Brown eyes the same round, lovely shade as Mavis's.

She looked nothing like her father, and Mavis was suddenly grateful.

Mavis didn't know what to expect―her breath was held―but just as easily, Evan's focus slid back from Isla to Ace.

Prioritizing the Russian's weapon over his own daughter.

"You," he said to Ace. "The Morozova. I could use you. Think about it. Me and you―we could be powerful. We could rule."

What?

"Anastasia―Ace," he continued. "Don't you want revenge? Your brother put you in prison. I know about that. For two years, you were left in solitary. Why not kill him, kill them all? We could do it together, you and I."

Ace's face was stone. Her blue eyes had darkened.

For a terrifying moment, Mavis wondered if she would accept.

But this time, it was Isla who spoke. "She's mine, you bastard."

And she lunged for Evan Powell with her sword.

"Call off that dog!" Evan roared, jumping back as she swiped at his leg.

Blood. She had drawn blood.

Mavis was so, so proud of her daughter.

But then it hit her: what Evan had called their child.

That dog.

She was ready to strangle him with her bare hands. But Ace was faster.

"What did you just call my daughter?" Ace whispered, deadly soft.

Evan swallowed. "Come on, think about it. I could be the king and you could be the queen. We'd rule the whole damn world together. You and I―"

Ace was in front of him with two strides. With one hand on his neck, she lifted all six feet of Evan Powell by his throat. "You just called my daughter a dog."

His eyes widened. Arms stiffening at his sides.

Ace's eyes locked on Mavis's. A question.

But Mavis shook her head. She didn't want Ace to kill him, not yet. Without him . . . who would rule the American Mafia? The responsibility would pass onto Isla, and then the Russians―

Oh, God. Mavis felt sick. The Russians would want Isla more than they did now.

Would they be safe anywhere?

The Russians . . . they'd never let go of Isla. They'd hunt her down because one day, she would inherit this throne.

The only way to stop that . . .

Hiding out in a cottage hadn't worked.

But the first option. The first choice. Getting on a plane to Russia and offering herself up as the grieving mother . . . she could play a role. Convince Prince Aleksi that Isla was dead.

It could work. It had to work.

And suddenly, Mavis knew what she had to do.

"Ace, kill him."

He wasn't Isla's father―no, he may biologically share her DNA, but that was it. He hadn't been there for her when she was a baby, when she had said her first word―Mama. He hadn't seen her crawl, then walk, for the first time.

He was a stranger. Someone she had once known.

That was all.

"No! Mavis! Mavis, please. Don't―"

Ace, without hesitation, pointed the gun at his forehead.

"There's a ring―a sex-trafficking ring―I can tell you the details―"

Mavis said, "Wait."

"Aleksi and I have been dealing together, we―we have a ring. We sell kids to New Orleans, to Tokyo, it's where the money comes from. I can help you bust it."

"Why would you do that?" Mavis asked.

"She has a gun pointed at my head!" His voice had risen an octave. "I don't want to die, for Christ's sake."

"I do not trust him," Ace said.

"But if he's telling the truth, we have to try." Mavis closed her eyes. Drew a deeper breath. "How does this work?"

"Just―drop the gun first―I can't think when that thing is pointed at my head."

Ace glanced at Mavis. Mavis nodded.

The gun lowered, and Evan let out a breath. "The sex trafficking ring is located on―"

And faster than a viper, he yanked Isla against his chest and pulled out a gun.

"Take one more step," he dared, "and I'll shoot her brains out right here."

The rage became a slow, rumbling build in Mavis's blood. Her daughter.

He had threatened her daughter.

"Put her down," Mavis said through her teeth.

Evan lifted one hand, as if to calm her down. The other still held the gun firmly tucked against Isla's temple. Her eyes were wide and as she bit her lip, trying to hide the trembling, Mavis's control shattered.

"Put her down right now."

"Just walk away," he said evenly. "Leave. Forget about her. All I want is the kid. That's it."

Now, it was Ace who said, "She's mine."

And his surprise was exactly what Isla needed. She bit down, hard, on Evan's arm. He yelped. "Fuckin' animal."

Isla stomped on his foot. And when he leapt, she rammed her elbow into his gut. He doubled over, gasping, and her final move was her knee between his legs.

"I'm not an animal," she said, looking down at him. "And you're a bad person."

Mavis wanted to say, Kill him.

But something in her hardened. And something rose up―a strength she didn't know she had.

For her daughter.

"Ace?"

"Yes, moya dorogava?"

"I need your gun."

Without question, Ace slipped her gun into Mavis's fingers. And when Mavis said, "Take Isla into the pizzeria. I don't want her to see this," Ace nodded with understanding and took Isla by the hand.

Once they were gone, Mavis lifted her chin and stared down at Evan.

"I'm the father of your child," he said, chest heaving.

"No," she said coldly. "My daughter has two mothers, but she doesn't have a father."

"You spread your legs for me easy. You're nothing but a whore―always were, always will be."

"And what does that make you, Evan? Why is it that I'm a whore, and you're not?"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You were an asshole when I loved you, and you're an asshole now. The difference is, I know better."

Mavis didn't waste any more time talking. He was a stranger to her. Maybe he had never even been anything more.

So when she shot him, it didn't feel like murder.

No, the flecks of his blood against her face, the metallic taste of it―that was redemption.

outside of the room, Ace and Isla were eating pizza.

It was so normal, so mundane, that Mavis laughed. She laughed―and she couldn't stop.

They were eating pizza in the American Mafia's hideout, and Mavis had just murdered Evan Powell.

It was so―ridiculous.

Hysterical. She was hysterical.

"Have some pizza, Mama," said Isla. "What kind do you want? There's pepperoni, cheese, Margherita . . ."

Mavis knew what she had to do.

Give herself up to the Russian Mafia. Convince them Isla was dead.

Deaths were faked all the time. They wouldn't believe Ace without any proof.

But Mavis could give the Russian prince the performance of her life.

And Isla . . . she could have a normal life. Do normal, stupid things. She could win soccer games and get a dog and bake a cake and marry the person she loved, all without worrying about the target on her back.

This had to work.

But for now, Mavis let herself laugh. Let herself pretend.

Because the second she got the chance, she would be on the next airplane to Moscow.

"Mama?" Isla was giggling now, too. "What pizza do you like?"

Even Ace's lips were curved into a half-grin. Goddamn it. She was so beautiful it hurt, and Mavis needed to look away or she would go back on her plan.

If she stared at Ace a second longer, she'd break.

So Mavis smiled at Isla and said, "I'll have whatever kind of pizza you're having."

"Oh, good!" Isla chirped. "I have mushroom-spinach-pineapple-ketchup-shrimp-mayonnaise pizza. I think you're going to love it."