Semua Bab SHADOW OF VOW'S: Bab 61 - Bab 70

Nikolai Volkov There’s a rhythm to war.Not the chaos people imagine. Not screams or fire or smoke. No—real war is quiet. Cold. Clean. It begins with blueprints. It lives in maps and code words, hushed meetings in steel rooms, and men who understand that silence is more powerful than any scream.I was never impulsive. Not when it came to blood.So when Viktor decided to draw first blood, he didn’t realize what he’d set in motion.He didn’t just kill two of my men. He didn’t just steal weapons. He tried to fracture the image I’d spent years cultivating—of a man untouchable, a man above weakness. That was his first mistake.And now it was my turn.---I stood in the war room of my compound—bare walls, reinforced doors, six screens flickering with live feeds, satellite imagery, and encrypted communications. The scent of steel and adrenaline hung in the air. Zayn leaned against the table across from me, arms crossed, his eyes locked on the blueprint projected in front of us.Three red ma

Alessia Volkov My hands were still trembling by the time I got to the entrance of the penthouse. I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold, the adrenaline, or the lingering fear slithering through my veins like poison. The encounter with Viktor Natov had lasted no more than ten minutes, but it had imprinted itself on my bones like a scar — fresh, raw, and impossible to ignore. I could still hear his voice echoing in my head. Still see the way his lips curled as he spoke my name, as if he had known it his entire life and had simply been waiting for the perfect moment to say it aloud. His calmness was the most terrifying part. There was no rage in him. No wildness. Just complete, calculated confidence. The kind of confidence that only comes from knowing exactly how much power you hold. I didn’t wait for the elevator to be called up by security. I stormed in, ignoring the wide-eyed glance of the guard at the desk. He didn’t try to stop me, probably because my face made it clear that I

Alessia Volkov I didn’t sleep much. Between Stassie’s tear-stained confession and the image of Viktor Natov's cold eyes, my mind had been restless, ricocheting between dread and helplessness. When I finally slipped out of bed, the penthouse was silent, bathed in the soft grey light of early morning. The city outside hadn’t quite woken up yet it was in that liminal space between night and day, when even the chaos paused to breathe. I padded barefoot into the kitchen, tying my robe as I went, determined to do something useful like cooking breakfast. A distraction, really. Something normal. Familiar. Something that didn’t involve betrayal, blackmail, or the question of who might die next. I cracked a few eggs into a bowl, whisking them quietly while glancing over my shoulder at the guest room door, still closed. She hadn’t moved all night. Poor Stassie. She’d curled up on the edge of the bed, knees to her chest, like she was trying to shrink herself into nothingness. The confident, rad

Dante Moretti The moment I stepped into the crimson-lit room of the Moretti estate, I knew Viktor was already there. The subtle scent of his custom Bulgarian tobacco, heavy in the air, clung to the velvet curtains and marble walls like a warning. It reminded me of the nights I used to sit by Alessia’s cradle, humming lullabies while smoke trailed in from the hallway where Viktor and I planned the world’s corruption over tumblers of scotch. He always arrived early, always with that smug patience that infuriated me more than any insult. He was sitting in my leather armchair the one Alessia used to curl up in as a child while I read the newspaper. His legs were crossed, his posture too relaxed for a man who claimed to be hunting a monster like Nikolai Volkov. He looked at ease, like he owned the place. Like he owned me. “Late,” he murmured, not even sparing me a glance. I said nothing as I crossed to the bar, poured myself two fingers of bourbon and threw it back in one burn. He l

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