Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

I even scheduled for a driver to take them to my mansion in East London. I didn’t have to prepare it to be habitable overnight because its live-in staff takes care of it better than they would their children.

It’s the only property I kept after I left. My graduation gift, not from my father, because fuck that guy. Grandpa had it in the will in my name for when I turned eighteen. Zach, who holds the sacred title of the firstborn and leader of the Sterling clan, received a small island in the Pacific.

No shit.

Our family is extravagant like that.

Of course, Zach now owns the family business—as in, a multitude of companies I lost count of. Or more like, he manages it. I own fifty percent of its shares and have the ability to kick him out and become acting CEO if the attorney gig doesn’t work out.

Not that I would.

I chose not follow engineering for a reason.

The family business disgusts me more than food.

This land revolts me, too.

Every fucking thing in it.

As soon as I’m done with what I came here for, I’m leaving and never returning. I’m taking Nicole as far away as possible. To Mars, even, if they opened trips to there.

Talking to her on the plane was no different than pulling teeth and choking on my own blood while simultaneously flying to heaven.

Ever since last night, I can’t look at her without experiencing that crushing feeling of “I could’ve stopped it.” I can’t talk to her without tasting that bitter pill of “what-ifs” or seeing the hazy color of guilt.

But at the same time, I couldn’t not talk to her, listen to her voice, make her laugh.

Fuck. I’ll never get used to the sound of her laughter. It’s like a fucking siren in a mythical story that I’m willing to let harvest my soul.

And the fact that she can still laugh is similar to squeezing my own heart with sharp nails.

So I did more. The whole fucking seven hours. I didn’t let her sleep, I got her talking about the years she spent raising Jayden on her own, and the story of how she found Lolli.

On her balcony, pretending the flat was her house.

Sounds like her.

The cat came with us, naturally, because both Nicole and Jayden threw a tantrum about leaving her behind.

Lucky little shit.

Anyway, talking to Nicole gave me a sense of peace I didn’t even dream of having since the day she left my life without looking back.

She can be oddly sarcastic and fluent at talking back any chance she gets.

And I was wrong. It’s not the old Nicole peeking through.

Did I even know the old Nicole beyond the image she plastered for her mother and stepfather’s sake?

Did I even see Nicole when she was deliberately leaving me lollipops and letting me be the one who had taken her virginity?

Or did I only see my fucked-up prejudice of her?

Last night, after I put my plan in motion, I couldn’t sleep. So I rewound every single interaction I’d had with her since that day she nearly died because of fucking peaches.

And every line I thought was set in stone is getting blurry, undecipherable.

And bloody confusing.

But I’ll deal with that.

After I deal with him.

The man who’s been living on borrowed time since the day he fucking touched her.





Knox gave me the phone number of a hitman in his future wife’s family. He’s married to Anastasia’s great-cousin and has killed more people than he could count or remember.

“He’s British, Irish, or maybe Russian. No fucking clue. His name is Kyle Hunter and he’s the only one who understands my sarcastic humor at their dinner table. Anyway, he’s your man. But don’t tell me what the fuck you need him for. I’m out of this mess.”

Kyle agreed to meet me here and even said he’ll have Christopher waiting for me.

He only needed his full name and that’s it.

When I was on the plane, he sent me a text with a location.

That’s where I am right now. In an abandoned warehouse in an old industrialized area.

I walk straight in and sure enough, the fucker whose life is on a fast hourglass mode is sitting on the chair, head lolled to the side.

A black figure comes from the shadows, and I’m slightly taken aback.

He’s tall, wears black like a Gothic model, and has the looks that go with it. Doesn’t strike me as a mobster at all.

“Kyle, I presume?”

“Daniel.” He tips his head. “I delivered your package. Do you need a bullet in his head? Or heart? Junk, maybe?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll be outside in case you need anything.” He shoulders past me. “Oh, and you can make him scream, the area has been carefully chosen so no one can hear.”

“Got it.”

“Next time, try to pick someone in the States. England is a hassle for hiding your tracks.”

The door screeches open, then closed, as he steps out.

Blood roars in my ears, then nearly spills all over the floor like fucking lava.

I stalk up to Christopher, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. I abandoned my jacket in the car and my phone, too. I need zero distractions when I deal with this piece of shit.

My fist finds his face first. I was never a violent person, not when I was young and definitely not when I grew up.

Yes, I was a troublemaker, but not in a violent way, more in a mischievous way.