Nikolai Volkov Victory tasted bitter.The kind of bitterness that sat in the back of your throat like old blood and rusted metal.Zayn and I had just walked out of a private meeting held in one of our most secure locations—an abandoned distillery we’d converted years ago into a war room. The stench of old alcohol still clung to the walls, but today, the only thing fermenting was the aftermath of our plans. One of Dante’s key shipments had been intercepted by the feds. Our sources had confirmed it—every crate of weapons marked for delivery had been seized. Meanwhile, Viktor’s black-market routes were collapsing like a house of cards in a wind tunnel. His men were scrambling. His confidence cracking.Everything we had meticulously orchestrated—every bribe, every planted leak, every midnight deal in the shadows—had struck its intended mark.We were winning.But I felt nothing.No surge of triumph. No rush of adrenaline.Because while our enemies bled, Stassie remained silent.And the wo
Dante Moretti The door slammed open with a deafening crack that ricocheted through the marble halls and into the hollow silence of Viktor’s office. My chest heaved, fury boiling beneath my skin like lava with no vent."You son of a bitch!" I roared, my footsteps pounding across the floor like war drums echoing through a battlefield.There he was. Seated calmly behind that monstrous black desk, more like a throne than furniture. A glass of red wine balanced between his fingers like we weren’t at war, like my empire hadn’t just collapsed beneath my feet. His poise, his detachment—it made me want to rip that smug expression off his face.He looked up slowly, his icy eyes locking onto mine. "Good morning to you too, Dante," he said with infuriating composure, raising his glass slightly in a mocking toast.That voice—too calm, too smooth—slid beneath my skin like a blade.I slammed both palms on his desk, leaning forward until our faces were inches apart. “Do you have any idea what just h
Nikolai Volkov The rain drums steadily against the windows of the penthouse, casting a dull rhythm over the war room we’ve assembled in my private office. Zayn leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning the intelligence reports one last time. He hasn’t spoken much since he saw Stassie at the hospital—but I can tell something in him snapped that day.We’re both done waiting.“Are you sure you want to go through with it tonight?” Zayn asks, his voice quiet but unwavering.I don’t look up from the laptop. I’m reviewing the latest satellite footage of Dante’s docks—specifically the containers arriving under forged IDs. “I’ve waited long enough. We both have. Dante made this personal. And Viktor…” My jaw clenches. “He made it about blood.”Zayn steps closer to the table, where our blueprint is laid out like a chessboard. “The new shipment lands at midnight. Everything’s ready. We leak the location and the manifest. FBI should be on them by sunrise.”“Good,” I murmur, tapping
Alessia Volkov The sterile white walls of the hospital room have become a second home, a cocoon of pain and waiting. The pale light filtering through the blinds hasn’t changed in days, giving the illusion that time has stalled completely. It’s been over a week since Stassie’s accident, and every second since has stretched into eternity. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor is the only sound anchoring me to hope, a metronome counting heartbeats like prayers.I sit on the edge of the stiff vinyl chair beside her bed, legs drawn up, arms wrapped around a cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. I haven’t had a hot drink in days. Haven’t slept properly either. My body aches in places I didn’t even know could hurt, and still, I don’t move. I can’t. As if stepping away might somehow pull her further from me.My gaze lingers on Stassie’s face—pale, delicate, bruised. She looks fragile, too fragile for someone who was always a wildfire. Bandages wrap around her forehead and temple, a sma
Nikolai Volkov The problem with silence is that it gives your thoughts too much room to breathe.Alessia sat across from me at the marble kitchen island, swirling a spoon in her untouched coffee like it had personally offended her. Her sarcasm clung to her like armor—shiny, sharp, and meant to distract from the storm I knew was building behind her eyes. She hadn’t stopped needling me since breakfast began, her barbs thrown with all the casual precision of a woman who refused to let fear rule her.“So let me guess,” she drawled, resting her chin on one hand. “Your grand plan is to brood in dark corners until Viktor spontaneously combusts from guilt?”I didn’t bother looking up from my tablet. “He doesn’t feel guilt. That’s what makes him dangerous.”“Wow,” she said dryly. “Philosophical and vague. Are you trying to seduce me or put me to sleep?”My eyes flicked to her then. Tousled hair, hoodie falling off one shoulder, legs tucked under her on the stool like she hadn’t spent the nigh
Dante MorettiI used to believe I held the reins of my empire with a firm and calculating grip. But Viktor Natov was not a man who tolerated boundaries. His thirst for vengeance had turned into a maddening obsession, and though I had once admired his ruthlessness, it was now a blade pressing against my own throat."This isn't what we agreed to," I muttered, nursing a glass of Chianti as Viktor paced the length of my study. "You said we'd take down Nikolai by cutting off his supply chain and ruining his credibility—not by dragging Alessia into this."Viktor’s sneer twisted his lips. "You want to hurt a man like Volkov? You go for what he protects. What he values. Alessia is leverage."I slammed my glass down so hard it fractured. Red wine bled over the wood like a wound. "That’s my daughter, Viktor."He leaned forward, predatory. "Then maybe you should’ve thought twice before giving her away in marriage like she was cattle."His words struck deeper than any physical blow. I knew what I