Runaway Queen

RUNAWAY QUEEN A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE MADE OF MAYHEM DUET BOOK TWO MILA KANE Copyright © 2023 by Mila Kane All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS Welcome to Mila’s world Author’s note 1. Nikolai 2. Nikolai 3. Nikolai 4. Nikolai 5. Sophie Rossi 6. Sofia 7. Nikolai 8. Nikolai 9. Sofia 10. Sofia 11. Sofia 12. Nikolai 13. Sofia 14. Sofia 15. Nikolai 16. Sofia 17. Nikolai 18. Nikolai 19. Sofia 20. Sofia 21. Sofia 22. Nikolai 23. Nikolai 24. Sofia 25. Nikolai 26. Sofia 27. Nikolai 28. Sofia 29. Sofia 30. Nikolai 31. Sofia Epilogue Mila Kane Also by Mila Kane WELCOME TO MILA’S WORLD Join my newsletter for deleted scenes, polls, and character inspiration at Mila Kane. AUTHOR’S NOTE Welcome to Mila Kane’s New York. It’s not the city you know, and here the Kings and Queens of the Underworld reign supreme. Along with life or death love, darkness and mayhem rules this corner of the book world. If that’s your thing, read on. If you’re not sure, check out my website for a full list of TWs. 1 NIKOLAI “It’s better to die than do nothing.” – Nikolai Chernov. I caught the man’s eyes across the crowded cafeteria. First, they skittered from mine, and then they returned. I pinned him with a mocking gaze. That silver stare was the first nail in his coffin. I made sure he realized that from my expression. His name was Gerald, and soon, he’d be dead. He shuddered and shuffled out of the room, head down. “He’s probably running back to his cell to cry into his stuffy,” a lilting voice said beside me. Bran lounged against the cafeteria bench like he owned it. A displaced Irish prince giving his time to the unwashed rabble. “I’m going to make him eat that thing. Every single bite.” I smirked, gripping my plastic fork in the only way that made the damn thing work. I scooped the tasteless white mush on the plate into my mouth. “Food is fuel” was a mantra that really came into its own in prison. Powdered mashed potato made with water. My favorite. It must be Wednesday. I’d had seven years of mashed potato Wednesdays. Proof that people can get used to anything. I didn’t just survive in prison. I ruled it. I’d almost miss it, and the predictability of the meal schedule, when I finally got out. One month from now. Bran laughed, rubbing a tattooed hand across his gold stubble, and nodded, his green eyes fastening on the place where the man had disappeared. “I heard that’s how he took them, you know? Chloroform on a stuffy, held it to their faces and…” Bran trailed off, his eyes hardening. I knew how he felt. I felt it, too. The same white-hot sense of rage that a man like that got to live another day, at the state’s expense. We might all be criminals in the maximum-security prison where I was currently an honored guest, but even felons have a code. That man had none. He didn’t deserve to keep breathing. Unfortunately, New York state didn’t have the death penalty for men like him. But they had me. There was no bleeding-heart committee or protest groups that would save him from me. Especially not when we were locked in the darkness together. The monster that stalked the halls of my empty chest hungered for his blood. Bran whistled under his breath. “We’ve got company.” The chair beside him jerked out, and a large body filled it. I knew who it was without looking up. Ramirez had only been inside for a month, and he’d already signed his death warrant by cooperating with the guards to get better privileges. His gang wasn’t happy with him. So, he was coming to me. The Executioner. Palach. “Well, Chernov, did you think it over?” I continued to eat, scooping the liquid mash from the plastic partitioned plate with ease, before I settled back and played with the plastic knife. Ramirez’s anxiety radiated across the table. Bran tutted. “You should know better than to think that the Palach would be interested in your cause. Bending over for the guards won’t keep you safe in here. It’s too late for that now, though.” “When you get out, I can make sure you have a real good time. All the coke you want, girls, the best week of your life. That has to be worth something.” Ramirez was sweating. I could smell him from across the table. I was tired of male sweat and desperation. The smell was one of the worst parts of prison. “You have nothing I want, Ramirez. Besides, I wouldn’t take anything from a rat. Run back to your gutter and say your prayers. You’ll need them where your old friends are sending you.” “Fuck you, man, you could fix it, you could help. Instead, you want more blood on your hands?” A laugh left me at that. One unhinged peal after another. Ramirez flinched, looking to Bran for an explanation. There wasn’t one. There was no reason to laugh at the very realistic thought that this man would be dead by morning, and yet, laughter was all I had for him. I looked at Bran and jerked my head toward the unwanted guest. “This fuck thinks I’ll care if his blood is on my hands.” Bran chuckled. “He clearly missed his calling as a comedian.” Ramirez’s face turned red. He was feeling embarrassed. Eyes were on us. He lost what was left of his sanity and swore at me, reaching into his jumpsuit. The homemade shiv was out of his pocket and through my hand before I could pull it back. He pinned my left hand to the scarred cafeteria