1

The city bent to men like Victor. It breathed because he allowed it to. It survived because Victor chose not to destroy it. And tonight it felt restless.

Victor Volkov stood behind his desk, the floor-to-ceiling windows stretching behind him, overlooking the glittering skyline and the magnificent skyscrapers. 

Rain had stopped hours ago, but the city still shimmered under its aftermath, the sparkling lights illuminated buildings, neon lights reflecting off wet streets like fractured diamonds.

His fingers tapped against the polished glass and then stilled as he stared down at the file in front of him. It has been there since yesterday, and he still hasn't opened and checked it.

He didn't want to. If he could, he'd rather burn it to ashes. 

He stopped tapping his finger, and the silence returned. Perfect. Controlled. Just the way he liked it.

Grabbing the file, he gently placed it in the drawer and closed it. He was done with the paperwork for today as he walked over to the minibar and poured himself some vodka. 

With one of his hands tucked in his pocket, he sipped the drink while staring at the sparkling city.

After a few minutes, a small knock echoed through the office. "Enter." He said. Thick Russian accent rolled off his tongue.

The door opened without hesitation, and Alexei Morozov, his right hand, stepped inside as the door closed behind him. Alexei was his shadow. Calm, efficient, and loyal to the bone.

“Tonight’s meeting is confirmed,” Alexei said, stepping further inside, his voice steady, measured. “The Italians have already arrived.”

Victor didn’t turn. His hold on the glass tightened just a fraction that no one could notice. 

“They’re early.” He rasped. His gaze sharp but empty.

“They want to make an impression,” Alexei said truthfully, staring at the Pakhan.

Victor let out a quiet, humorless breath. Followed by a light chuckle. He expected nothing less from them. His greatest enemies.

“They already have.” He said, sipping on his drink as it burned his throat slightly, and he loved that tingling feeling.

There was a slight pause from his side when Alexei spoke up.

“There’s something else,” Alexei added. “The Capo di Capi is hosting a private gala tonight. You’re expected.”

Victor finally turned. Slowly. His sharp blue eyes locked onto Alexei’s.

“Expected?” he repeated, raising his brow slightly.

A faint smirk ghosted Alexei’s lips. He knew Victor didn't like that word. 

Alexei was his right in command, but he was also Victor's good friend. Alexei has been loyal to Victor for twelve years now. They grew up together, and no one has taken Alexie's place since Victor became the Pakhan. 

“Invited,” he corrected. “But we both know what that means.”

Yes.

Victor did. This wasn’t a social gathering. This was positioning. Power. A silent battlefield dressed in luxury.

“And the daughter?” Victor asked.

Alexei reached into his jacket and placed a slim black folder on the desk.

"The pictures are already in the folder I gave you yesterday," Alexei said and continued.

“Serena Moretti,” he said. “Only heir. Educated abroad. No scandals. No weaknesses… on paper.”

Victor’s gaze flickered to the file. He had seen it. Read every page. Memorized every detail. But one thing remained untouched. The final photographs. He hadn’t opened them. Didn’t need to. 

“Anything else?” Victor asked. Alexei hesitated, just slightly, as he lowered his gaze to his polished shoes.

“Only that… the deal is moving faster than expected.”

Victor’s jaw ticked. Of course it was. Nothing in this world moves without purpose.

“Prepare the car,” Victor said. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. Whenever the Italian mafia was mentioned, all he ever felt was disgust towards them. And rage. He'd rather have their existence wiped out. Especially Capo di Capi, who could do anything for power. Pathetic b*stard.

The gala was everything Victor expected. And nothing he cared about.

Crystal chandeliers bathed the grand hall in golden light. The air was thick with expensive perfume, soft music, and quiet conversations that held more secrets than truth.

Men in tailored suits. Women draped in silk and diamonds. Predators pretending to be civilized.

Victor walked in like he owned the place. Because in a way... He did. Eyes turned. Whispers followed as always. Ironically, he hated attention, but he got it a lot.

All eyes were glued to him, and why not? He was a 6'3 man, built like a Greek God with sharp features, like that of a warrior, sharp blue eyes, infectious smile; though he never smile in front of these people, dirty blond hair, thick sharp brows and a very sharp jaw draped with trimmed beard that gave him such a handsome look that all the women were drooling over him.

But then subtly the room shifted. Not loudly. Not obviously. But Victor felt it. That subtle shift in energy. He turned. And there he was.

Lorenzo Moretti. The great Capo di Capi.

The man who built empires with blood and patience. Their eyes met across the room. Tension stretched.

Cold.

Heavy.

Unforgiving.

Moretti smiled. But Victor didn’t. He'd rather empty his gun into Lorenzo's skull, but now was not the right time.

They closed the distance like two kings walking towards war.

“Volkov,” Lorenzo greeted smoothly, his Italian accent wrapped in silk and danger.

“Moretti.” Victor's voice was deep and low. Like a deadly weapon ready to slice his head off.

Victor was a good foot taller than Moretti as he looked down at him with disdain. His hands were tucked in his pockets with complete disinterest.

He swiftly took a glance around, just his irises sliding across the hall, and he instantly noticed at least 13 of Moretti's men loaded with weapons pretending to be guests, while Victor had only come along with Alexei, who was silently sitting at the far corner, watching, observing.

Victor alone was enough for these dogs.

Moretti and Victor just stared at each other; there was no handshake. No unnecessary pleasantries. Just acknowledgment.

“I trust you received my invitation,” Lorenzo said.

“I don’t attend things I don’t find useful,” Victor said.

A faint chuckle left Lorenzo. “Straight to business. I like that.”

Victor’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t like to waste time.” He said calmly. No emotion at all.

“Good,” Lorenzo said. “Because neither do I.”

A pause. It was like all eyes were set on them, and everyone was holding their breath, at any second, this peaceful gala could turn into a blood bath.

“The agreement still stands,” Lorenzo said. 

Of course it did. Victor already knew. But hearing it aloud? Made it real. Permanent. And it made Victor's blood boil. 

“I don’t deal in uncertainty,” Victor replied.

“Neither do I.”

Another beat of silence. It was like at any second they'd lunge at each other. Victor was a powerful man, but Lorenzo was an old man. If Victor were to raise his fist, Lorenzo might end up losing his life.

Lorenzo’s gaze shifted slightly, past Victor.

“There she is.”

Victor took his time, and after a long pause, he followed his line of sight. And for the first time that night. Something… stilled.

Serena Moretti walked in. And the entire room noticed. She didn’t demand attention. She didn’t try. And yet... All eyes found her.

Wrapped in a black dress which clung to her body like sin, elegant and dangerous, every step she took was deliberate, effortless. Her long black hair fell in soft waves, framing a face that was... Too innocent.

She didn’t belong there. And yet… the room bent around her.

She looked like innocence wrapped in sin. And her eyes, they were like ocean blue magnets. Victor’s gaze locked onto her. And for a fraction of a second...

He didn’t look away. And that annoyed him.

Something sharp curled in his chest. Not desire. Not yet. Something… else. Interest.

Danger.

Yes, she looked innocent and sinful at the same time, but there was something else about her composed demeanor. And it felt lethal.

Victor looked away. Abrupt. Controlled. Like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing.

“She’ll suffice,” Victor said coldly, a way of insulting Lorenzo.

Lorenzo’s lips curved slightly. “She’s more than that.”

Victor didn’t respond. Footsteps approached. Measured. Elegant. And then she was there. Closer than before.

Real.

Not a file.

Not a photograph.

Serena Moretti.

As soon as she came to stand beside her father, a scent of jasmine mixed with fresh rain reached his senses, and it was such a refreshing scent. It was soft and feminine.

Victor didn't bother looking at her. He was fed up for today. He had no interest in staying longer than necessary.

Her blue eyes were clear and observant. He could feel her gaze lingering on his face, but he looked at her just for her to stop staring at him. Their eyes met.

And she didn’t flinch. Interesting. So little Moretti wasn't a scared cat, well, for the record, she didn't know Victor enough, and once she knew him, she'd be scared for her life.

“Serena,” Lorenzo said, “this is-”

"I know who he is.” Her voice was soft. Controlled. And completely unimpressed. Just like Victor's.

Victor’s jaw tightened. Just slightly. Enough to notice. Enough to matter. Victor expected a scared girl, but she surely has Capo's blood in her veins.

Lorenzo glanced between them. Then, casually said. “Why don’t the two of you talk?”

That irked Victor, like who was he to suggest this or to even expect such a thing from Victor. He wasn't here to court the girl. He was about to refuse. He didn’t entertain things like this.

“No.”

The word cut through the air. Sharp. Immediate. Serena refused firmly.

Victor’s head turned slowly toward her. Her gaze remained steady. Unbothered. Unafraid.

“I’m not interested in small talk,” she added calmly.

Silence.

Thick.

Heavy.

Victor stared at her. Longer than necessary. Long enough to understand one thing. This woman… Was not what she seemed. His jaw ticked once. And for the first time that night. Something dangerous flickered beneath his calm. Not anger. No, but close. Very close.

“Good,” Victor said, his voice low and controlled.

“I don’t like wasting time either.” His deep voice was smooth and addictive.

Their eyes locked. Not a word spoken. Not a move made. And yet, everything had already begun.