2

My handler slid the manila folder across the table, his face grim.

“You’re the only one who can do this,” he said.

The photo on top showed Viktor standing next to a private jet, flanked by men who looked more like statues than bodyguards.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that made him look like he’d been carved from stone.

His dark eyes seemed to pierce through the photograph.

“He’s paranoid,” my handler continued. “No one gets close to him unless he lets them. But we have a way in.”

He tapped the folder.

“A meeting. He’s recruiting new talent for his operations. You’ll pose as a mercenary. He’ll test you, of course. He’ll try to break you. But you can’t let him. If he senses weakness, you’re dead.”

I’d taken the file without hesitation.

Missions like this were routine.

Or so I thought.

4

SABRINA

Now, standing in the rain, I wasn’t so sure.

It was showdown time.

The building loomed before me, its windows glowing faintly in the night.

My gun was holstered beneath my coat, its weight both familiar and comforting.

I’d worn the persona of “Sabrina,” the ruthless mercenary, like a second skin.

But no disguise could hide the unease that twisted in my gut.

5

SABRINA

The nightclub pulsed with a dark energy that made my skin crawl.

Neon lights flashed against the grimy walls, casting jagged shadows that danced with the crowd.

It wasn’t the music or the drugs in the air that unsettled me—it was the underlying violence, the sense that everyone here was playing a role in some larger, more dangerous game.

Viktor’s world.

I had rehearsed my cover story countless times on the way here, making sure every detail aligned perfectly with the persona I’d crafted.

A trafficker from Eastern Europe, brutal and efficient, seeking business with someone like him.

It wasn’t far from the truth, but it was far enough to be believable.

Slipping through the crowd, I caught glimpses of men in tailored suits and women wrapped in sequins and secrets.

Viktor’s people.

It was easy to spot them—they held themselves with a quiet menace, their eyes always scanning, always watching.

The bartender noticed me immediately.

I ordered a drink I didn’t want, my fingers brushing the glass as I scanned the room.

Somewhere in this chaos, he was watching.

He always was.

6

VIKTOR

I saw her the moment she walked in.

A predator in a room full of prey, but not yet realizing she was also prey.

It amused me how carefully she played her part—every movement calculated, every glance rehearsed.

She thought she was invisible.

She wasn’t.

“Who is she?” I asked one of my men, my voice low.

“New player. Claims to run weapons out of Odessa. Calls herself Sabrina.”

Sabrina.

A lie, of course.

But a good one.

She moved like a woman with blood on her hands, like someone who had seen the worst this world could offer and made it her home.

“Let her through,” I said. “I want to see what she’s selling.”

I leaned back in my chair, watching as she made her way toward the VIP section.

Her steps faltered for a fraction of a second when the bouncer let her through without question.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I caught it.

She wasn’t as confident as she wanted me to think.

Good.

Fear made people honest.

7

SABRINA

The hallway leading to the VIP lounge felt like a tunnel into another world.

The music faded, replaced by muffled conversations and the occasional laugh.

Viktor’s world was quieter, more refined—but no less deadly.

When I entered the room, I saw him immediately.

He was exactly as I’d been told—tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that gave him the appearance of a man carved from stone.

His eyes were the worst part, though.

Cold.

Empty.

Like he was dissecting me with a scalpel in his mind.

“Sabrina,” he said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge that made my stomach twist. “I’ve been expecting you.”

I forced a smile.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all.”

 He gestured to the seat across from him, and I sat, careful not to let my nerves show.