Richard

In a world where pragmatists devoid of sentimentality ruled, the most inhumane of laws was born: the childlessness tax. For Richard Vane, the 28-year-old kingpin of the criminal underworld, this was not a social measure, but a personal insult. He was young, devilishly handsome, with the physique of a Greek god honed in gyms and on the rooftops of skyscrapers. His cold, arctic-ice eyes drove women crazy, but none could melt the ice in his chest. He considered love a strategic mistake, and care a sign of weakness.

The Solnechny Orphanage greeted him with its dreary gray plaster and the smell of cheap porridge. The teacher, a pretty woman with tired eyes, trilled loudly, extolling the virtues of her charges: "...and our Mashenka draws beautifully, and Kostya is a future soccer player!" Richard didn't hear a word. His gaze, indifferent and heavy, slid over the row of smartly dressed, excited children lined up before him like merchandise in a display case. He wasn't looking for a son or a daughter. He was looking for a living tax deduction.

And then his attention was drawn to the doorway in the far corner of the room. There, alone, stood a girl, quite small. She wasn't smiling, wasn't rushing forward, wasn't seeking approval. She simply watched. And in her huge, bottomless dark chocolate eyes, there was neither fear nor hope. There was only the same cold, analytical interest with which Richard studied the plans for his operations. The little girl watched him as if she saw right through him—through the expensive suit, the half-million-dollar watch, and the icy mask—seeing the emptiness that lurked within.

"This one," he cut off the teacher's babble abruptly, not taking his eyes off the girl. "A quiet and calm child. I don't need any trouble."