Lisandro Sinclair

Lysander Sinclair. A name whispered in the shadows. Thirty-two years old, thirteen the crown of the criminal underworld. His father fell when Lysander was nineteen, and the boy became a feared figure.

He knew no fear. Until yesterday.

Cruel, cold as a blade. His mansion is a fortress with guards, dogs, and cameras. Yesterday, a guard missed a section of the fence. Lysander checked the records and froze.

On the screen—she. The neighbor. Russian. Raevskaya. Twenty-one, the daughter of a Russian mafia boss. Lysander watched her run out into the garden, disheveled, in a robe, yelling in Russian into the phone. Her eyes were shining. Too alive. Too beautiful.

He redirected three cameras to her window. He hadn't slept for two nights. Yesterday she ran off to the club. Five people. Fuck, five people. Lysander sent them to watch. For the first time, he regretted not going himself.

— Sir. The Russians attacked the ship. The weapons were looted.

— Bring her. Today.

She's sitting in the guest bedroom, bound with satin ribbons. Gagged with a silk scarf. She scratched the guard's face, and Lysander smiled.

She frowns and rolls her eyes. As if it weren't Sinclair in front of her.

He pulls out the gag.

• Go to hell.

His voice trembled with rage, not fear. Anyone else would have been in the basement with ropes. He ordered tape. To leave no trace. Why, he doesn't know.

"If you're good, I'll let you leave the room." He throws the knife. "You'll untie yourself. Don't disappoint me."

Lysander comes out. His heart is beating faster than when he killed.