said in disbelief. "It's still snowing and we've been here for, like, an hour."

"Yes," Ace said, amusement tugging the corner of her mouth. "It does snow in Russia for longer than an hour."

"I think I'm going to need a winter jacket."

"I agree," Ace said, as Isla stuck out her tongue to catch a snowflake on the tip. "You are going to get sick."

"Mierda! Look at that building! It's pink and green and blue!"

"Yes, the architecture in Russia is unique."

"This is so cool," Isla said, her eyes following the swirling design of the cathedrals and restaurants. "It's like the Taj Mahal on drugs."

Ace glanced down at Isla. "Malen'kiy nindzya, follow me. This is where we will get your jacket."

After Aleksi had called, Ace had known for certain Mavis was already there―perhaps even in the room with him. Her only option, after arriving in Russia, was to walk to her nearest connection. Ace had always had spies of her own. 

Driving―or taking the bus―would be dangerous. Most of the transportation in the city was monitored by Aleksi's men.

This was why Ace and Isla had now been walking, hand in hand, for over an hour. 

Ruski's was a small, cramped clothing store close to St. Basil's Cathedral. When Ace pushed open the door, a small bell rang in the corner.

The three men in the shop froze at the sight of her.

Ace knew there were others in the Mafia who got their information from Ruski, but if she had known one of them would be Nikolai Retkov, she would have stayed far, far away.

Because there Nikolai Retkov was, an old man in a tophat.

Not many people scared her, but he did.

Baba Yaga. The Boogeyman.

He had killed, if the rumour was true, thousands of men in this line of work. He had been trained in the KGB special operations long before she was even born. He was mastered in the art of making men cry for their mommies, and even her father―proud, mighty and arrogant―had admitted it.

The moment she saw him, her hand was on her gun.

If she had to fight him, she would.

His hand reached for something in his own jacket.

A split-second reaction, until Isla squealed―

"Nicky!"

Ace did not move fast enough to pull Isla back. She was already leaping through the sections of jackets and warm woolen coats towards Ace's own sworn enemy.

And then―Isla hugged the Boogeyman.

Nikolai Retkov stumbled back a step, a wheezing grimace on his weathered face. "Now, now, milyy, I told you I am an old man."

Ace still kept pressure on the trigger of her gun, but Nikolai Retkov was no longer even paying attention to her.

The tophat―where did Ace remember that from?

"Ace, this is Nicky. Nicky, this is Ace, my mom." Isla beamed in the arms of the infamously deadly Baba Yaga. "Nicky is my best friend. We sat next to each other on a flight for eight hours. He told me all his adventures as an assassin, and a special intelligence operative, and a serial killer even. Isn't he great?"

"I was trying to scare her off," Nikolai said in a rough, raspy voice. "Everything I told her only seemed to make her more excited."

Ace . . . understood that. But she did not lower her gun.

"Come on, Mom, you can't kill my best friend." Isla gave her a stern look. "And Nicky, you have to promise you won't kill my mom either, okay?"

"Fine, fine, milyy," said Nikolai.

Ace did not know what surprised her most: her daughter being best friends with the Boogeyman, or the fact that she had called him Nicky five times and was still alive.

Reluctantly, Ace holstered her gun.

Nikolai's stare was hard on hers, but Ace revealed nothing. If Isla did not want her to kill him, she would not―unless he tried something first.

The other two men in the shop were watching the exchange with baffled expressions.

"Do you sell jackets for children?" Ace finally asked.

The man behind the counter coughed. "Yes," he said in a heavily accented voice. "We have jackets for little girls. What colour does she prefer? Pink?"

"Red," Isla said brightly. "So when I murder people the bloodstains blend in!"

"Black is better," Nikolai advised in an eerily kind voice. "Blood turns brown when it dries."

"Then black!" Isla said.

Ace did not let Nikolai and Isla leave her line of sight as she leaned towards the counter. The man―Ruski―swallowed when he noticed her piercing stare. 

"I need information."

"I do not know what you are talking about."

Ace slid the wad of cash over the counter. "Yes, you do. Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Do not play stupid," Ace growled, slamming her hand on the counter. "I know it is exciting when Aleksi brings new additions to the showroom."

"The―the Latina woman." 

"Yes," Ace said, smiling softly now. "Where is she?"

"I―I don't know―"

Ace slid more cash in his direction. "I want to know which showroom she is in."

There were only two in the city, but if Ace got it wrong, then she would not have time to stop Mavis from dancing in front of the Mafia tonight.

Aleksi did not yet know she was in this city yet. She intended to keep it like that.

As for the showroom . . . it had to be either the Winter Sire or the Emerald Prince.

"The Winter Sire," said Ruski. 

"Good," Ace said. "Now, how much for a private plane?"

not believe that a man who was spoken about in nightmares and horror stories, who had defeated a hundred enemies with one hand in a war, who had grown such a taste for killing that he even tallied it . . . was Isla's best friend.

Before they had left the shop, Isla had cried, "Bye, Nicky! Text me later!" 

"Isla," Ace had said. "You do not have a phone."

"No shit, Sherlock. That's why I gave him your phone number. But don't worry, your IP address is untraceable anyway. I downloaded a protected software with the proper javelin code to―"

Ace had only shook her head, smiling quietly to herself. Less than forty-five minutes later, they were in the private plane Ace had paid for―somewhere on the outskirts of the city, in a snowy landscape far beyond the reach of the Mafia.

It would be dark soon, and Mavis―what was happening to her now? What kind of torture were they inflicting on her?

Now, Ace knelt down on the red carpet of the small plane. Isla's words trailed off at whatever was on her face.

"No," Isla said immediately.

"I have not said anything."

"Well, we're sitting in a private airplane in the middle of fucking nowhere, and my mom is being held hostage in a showroom halfway across the city. I know what you're going to ask me."

Ace let out a breath between her teeth. "Kiska, this is not like the American mob. I will not be able to kill everyone here―there are hundreds, thousands, of Russians in this city."

"Are you sure?" Isla asked. "You could probably take around―"

"Isla, I need you to promise me you will stay here. Do you have your sword?"

"Yeah, of course I do."

"You must stay here, and I will return with your mother."

"You'll bring her back?"

"Yes."

"Safe and whole and―and alive and everything?"

"Yes."

"Promise me, Ace," said Isla, her eyes suddenly glossy with a sheen of tears. "You have to promise me. You'll bring her back safe, won't you?"

Ace knew the dangers of making such a promise to a little child, but―

"I promise," Ace finally said, as soft as a breath.

Isla relaxed, nestling her head into Ace's shoulder. "See you soon?"

"Yes, soon."

As Ace stepped down the stairs of the plane, the icy wind blasting her face, Isla called, "I love you!"

"I love you, too," Ace murmured, but the cold gust had already slammed the door shut.

was a blue-grey structure close to the Red Square. With high, arcing domes and shiny silver lining, it was a favourite tourist destination―during the day, at least.

At night, it was reserved for parties with special invitations from the prince.

Ace did not knock on the front door. No, if Mavis was inside, she was going to kill everyone in this fucking palace.

As soon as she stepped through the entrance, she was greeted by the sound of warm, flowing music.

In Russian, the bouncer was already asking for her invitation.

He was dead in four seconds, his blood splattered on the stone wall behind him.

Ace stepped carefully through the gauzy curtains. Another bouncer was positioned here, and his eyes widened when he saw her.

Immediate recognition. That was a surprise.

But before he could scream, she had killed him, too. 

A feeling of wrongness prickled her spine. Why did it seem as if the men had been told to look for her?

Inside of the showroom, Ace's eyes fell on the brightening silhouettes in the room. Round, circular booths deep-set into the glossy black floors. Pearl-and-silk curtains that pooled high from the ceiling. A stage in the center, with seven women chained to the wall.

On the pole in the middle, one woman spun, naked except for a cross between her legs.

Ace scanned each of the women, but―

None of them were Mavis. 

At a nearby booth, one of the men had a cigar in his mouth, laughing until he saw her. He almost fell off the side of his seat.

"That's her," he gasped in a puff of smoke. "That's―"

He was dead before he could speak again. His friends let out roars of outrage, guns already cocking.

Ace did not waste her time killing them all. Mavis was her priority, and if she did not find her first―

Backstage. 

If Aleksi was keeping her backstage, it was because he wanted to auction her off . . . personally. 

The thought made Ace's vision sear with crimson.

She was already striding onto the stage, eliciting several startled cries from the audience, before she could think better of it. As she crossed the distance, she shot the locks that bound each of the women. Freeing them.

Then she was backstage, yanking aside the curtains, and―

Nothing. Mavis wasn't here.

Had Aleksi moved her? Had he known she was coming?

If Nikolai Retkov had betrayed them, she would rip his heart out with her teeth.

But when she turned around, there was not a mobster―but a police officer.

A trap. 

It had been a trap.

Not Nikolai Retkov's doing―but the man behind the counter. Ruski.

He had lied about the White Sire, which meant―

Mavis was being kept at the Emerald Prince. On the other side of the city.

"Ace Alisa Anastasia Ivanova Morozova," said the officer. "Vy arestovany."

You are under arrest.

the taste of his blood, the satisfying crunch of his bones breaking between her fingers. She imagined the screams he would make, such pathetic screams, as he wailed for his mother.

It would be delightful. It would be suffering she enjoyed.

The car ride to the prison was a long, winding road. The snow outside smudged against the small windows of the truck.

In the back, chained with four other prisoners, Ace leaned her head back against the shuddering truck.

They would put her in Black Dolphin Prison. Aleksi would make sure of it.

And from there . . . she knew there was no escape. She had already tried.

Her only option was to . . . kill everyone right here, right now, and escape.

Ace flexed her wrists against the black iron handcuffs. With nothing but her legs unchained, she was sure she could do it. Four prisoners dead would get the attention of the two drivers, and if they got close enough―

But just as she tensed, preparing to spring, the truck rolled to a grating stop.

Ace looked up. This was better than she had expected. If she could kill the two drivers directly, it might save her some time.

Outside, snow crunched beneath heavy boots.

A sound like a muffled shriek evaporated into the night.

The back doors to the truck flew open.

Wind and sleet and snow swirled inside. Ace narrowed her eyes at the small figure silhouetted against the bright lights of Moscow.

She would never forget those blue eyes, that black hair. Not in a thousand years.

Not as Calista smiled grimly at her and said, "Zdravstvuy dorogoy." 

Ace's face betrayed nothing, but―

"I killed the other driver," Calista said in a chiming Russian accent. "Are you coming or not?"

"You are supposed to be dead."

"It is nice to see you as well," Calista said.

"You are supposed to be dead, or I would have killed you by now."

"That was the point." Calista was already tossing Ace the key to her handcuffs. 

The other prisoners tugged at their own chains restlessly, as though Calista might give them their own keys as well. She did not.

"It is just you," Calista said, and for a moment, with the wind swirling her black hair . . . Ace remembered a time when she had loved this woman. "I am repaying my debt."

"Why?"

"The woman you love is in the city, is she not? She is being kept at the Emerald Prince, close to the Czar Palace. Aleksi had all of his spies in the city keep an eye out for you. He set this trap weeks ago."

"Why are you helping me?" Ace said, letting her handcuffs clatter onto the floor of the truck.

She jumped out of the back of the truck, as lithe as a snow panther, and rose to her full height in front of Calista.

"I―I did love you, vozlyublennyy," Calista whispered. "I did not mean to betray you."

"You gave my brother the evidence he needed to make an arrest. You were a witness at my trial."

"I loved you then," Calista said softly. "And I love you now. But I know you love her―this brown-skinned woman. I do not regret my choices, but―I want you to have this."

And in her hand, there was a silver gun.

"Deadly precision," Calista said, her fingers brushing Ace's. "It will hit a target from five hundred feet away. There are twelve bullets, so use them wisely. Use your hands for the rest."

Ace thought about killing Calista for her betrayal, but―this was a kindness.

And Mavis had been the one to teach Ace mercy.

Without another word, Ace slipped her fingers around the gun. 

For a moment, she thought of it―truly thought of it. She could kill Calista right now. Leave her body in the snow, red soaking into the white hills.

Ace had never been a creature of forgiveness. But Calista . . . no, Ace would not―could not―cross this line. For Mavis, for Isla. For herself.

"Spasibo," Ace said finally. Thank you.

When she took off into the night, Ace let that forgiveness, that mercy, swirl off her shoulders and into the cold night. 

She would see Prince Aleksi soon, and there was no room for anything but cold-blooded murder.

had always been one of her favourite places in the city. A tower with several green-and-gold striped domes. And, next to it, the Czar Palace.

This had been Ace and Aleksi's home when they were children. A palace their father had claimed, now devoid of any trace of him.

Inside the Emerald Prince, there were no bouncers. No security.

They thought she had been arrested.

They thought she was behind bars.

As if that―as if anything―could stop her from getting Mavis back.

And, as stupid as men were, they assumed that if anyone tried to invite themselves in unwanted, they could fight them off.

After all, who would be idiotic enough to walk right into a den of wolves?

The inside of the Emerald Prince was lush with deep turquoise hues and metallic gold tapestries. In the center of the room, a circular stage rotated in front of the audience. 

Instead of a pole, there was a length of silky cloth. Sultry piano music, combined with the low throaty tones of the trumpet, coursed through the dark, gilded room.

Aleksi, on a makeshift throne of velvet and gold, lounged back.

And the woman, draped in the knotting of silk, twisting in mid-air, had familiar, pink-flushed brown skin. Round hips. And curly brown hair that spilled down into the air.

Her rosy lips twisted into a scowl that no one but Ace could see. Her long-lashed eyes were closed, her tongue peeking out in concentration.

Beautiful―even now, even under duress. Ace did not think Mavis would ever not be beautiful to her.

The silk unspooled around Mavis's body, from her chest to her waist to her hips, until she was only inches from touching the ground.

The men applauded, and Ace wanted to rip them all to pieces.

Mavis let the last of the silk unwind from her wrist, and with a soft sigh, her tiptoes connected with the glossy stage floor.

"Did I say you could be done?" Aleksi warned in a low, dangerous growl.

Closer now, Ace could see―

Bruises. Bruises and cuts on Mavis's perfect body. A red welt on her cheekbone.

They would pay. They would all pay for what they had done to her.

If it was the last thing she did, they would pay.

But now, Ace was close. And she smiled in delicious anticipation at the thought of what would come next.

The circle of men surrounded the stage was as thick as a braided rope. Instead of shoving someone aside, Ace pressed her gun to the head of the first man she could find.

"Adios," she whispered in his ear, right before she pulled the trigger.

Eleven bullets left.

When he fell face-forward, Aleksi's head whipped in her direction.

"Ace," he said, shock dancing on his handsome, crystal features.

To the left of her, she shot another man without breaking eye contact with her brother.

"Aleksi," she said with a dark grin. "I am here to get the love of my life back."

"Ace!" Mavis said breathlessly.

They had only seconds before every single gun in the room was pointed at them.