Ice And Iron 

The cold in the arena was different from the cold in Italy. In Lake Como, the air was crisp and sweet. Here, at the Boston Titans’ facility, it smelled different.

I stood on the edge of the rink, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of a wool coat that cost more than most people’s cars. Beside me, my father was a statue of perfection.

What have I done?

The question had been looping in my head since I woke up in that empty suite, no traces of that man, just me wrapped in sheets naked. I was a Moretti. I was a Harvard graduate. I was supposed to be the smartest man in any room, yet I had let a stranger break me apart in a basement club.

"Stop looking at the ice like you’re afraid of it, Alessandro," my father said, his voice barely a whisper. "The Volkov boy is coming out. This is the face of our future. Look impressed."

"I’m here, aren't I?" I snapped back.

"You’re here in body. Your head is somewhere else. You've been twitchy since yesterday. Did you find a girl last night or just a bottle?"

I felt a flush of heat creep up my neck. "Neither."

The sound of skates slicing through ice echoed through the empty stands. A figure emerged from the tunnel, moving with a terrifying kind of grace. He was fast. He hit a puck, and the sound of it slamming against the boards.

"That’s him," Bianca whispered. She was standing on my other side, looking small in her fur-trimmed coat. "Nikolai Volkov."

I watched him. He was brutal. He didn't just play; he dominated the space. He came to a hard stop right in front of us, spraying a fine mist of ice over the glass. He pulled off his helmet, and my heart stopped.

Blonde hair, matted with sweat. Sharp, high cheekbones. And those eyes.

No. It’s not possible.

The world seemed to tilt. My lungs suddenly forgot how to work. The man who had pinned me to a door forty-eight hours ago was currently skating toward the gate to meet his future wife. My Sister.

"Nikolai!" my father called out, his voice booming with a fake warmth. "A pleasure to finally see the warrior in action."

Nikolai stepped off the ice, his guards clicking on the rubber floor. He was even bigger in his gear. He looked like a machine made of iron and spite. He shook my father’s hand, his expression cold.

"Mr. Moretti," Nikolai said. His voice was a deep, low rumble. The same voice that had commanded me to swallow.

He turned to Bianca, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. "Bianca. You look lovely."

"Thank you, Nikolai," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Then, those frozen blue eyes shifted to me.

Run, my mind screamed. Leave. Now.

"And this," my father said, stepping between us, "is my son, Alessandro. The Best Man. He’ll be handling the technical side of our partnership. He’s the brains of the operation."

Nikolai didn't move for a long second. He just stared. I could see the exact moment the recognition hit him. I saw his pupils dilate. I saw the way his jaw tightened until I thought his teeth might crack. He recognized my scent. He recognized the way I was looking at him—like a deer staring at a hunter.

"Alessandro," Nikolai said. He didn't say it like a greeting. He said it like a threat.

"Nikolai," I managed to choke out. My voice was thin.

My father frowned, sensing the sudden change in temperature. "Alessandro, you’re pale. Shake the man’s hand."

I reached out. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. My hand was trembling. I didn't want to take it. If I touched him, I was afraid I’d shatter right there on the floor. But my father was watching. The agents were watching. 

I extended it, Nikolai stepped forward, closing the gap between us until I had to tilt my head back to look at him.

He didn't just take my hand. He seized it.

Nikolai didn't just shake it. He crushed it. His grip was punishing, his large, calloused fingers wrapping around mine with a strength that promised pain. He pulled me half an inch closer, leaning down so his mouth was inches from my ear.

"The Best Man," he whispered, his voice so low only I could hear. "Is that what they call you?"

"Let go," I hissed, trying to pull my hand back.

He didn't. He gripped harder, his eyes bore into mine. He wasn't just angry; he was disgusted. And beneath the disgust, there was a heat that told me he hadn't forgotten the way I tasted.

"I don't like surprises, Moretti," he muttered, his thumb pressing hard into my knuckles. "And I don't like ghosts."

He finally let go, but the damage was done. My hand was throbbing, and my secret was no longer mine alone. I looked at my sister, who was smiling at him and I felt a wave of nausea so strong I had to steady myself against the railing.

"A bit intense, isn't he?" my father said, chuckling as he smoothed his lapel. "That’s the Russian blood. Pure fire. He’ll be a lion for the brand."

I looked down at my hand. My knuckles were white, and the imprint of his fingers was already turning red. I looked at Bianca, who was staring after Nikolai with a look of quiet dread.

I had gone to that club to be a "nobody" for one night. I had wanted to escape the Moretti name. Instead, I had handed the most dangerous man in Boston the one weapon that could destroy my sister, my father, and the fragile life I was trying to protect.

I wasn't a ghost anymore. I was a target.

I had slept with the man who was supposed to save our family. And by the look in Nikolai’s eyes, he was going to make sure it was the thing that destroyed us all.