The country club—synonymous with wealth, status, and exclusivity. A place where people come to unwind, play golf, or indulge in whatever distractions rich folks consider leisure. Roman Morozov isn't here for any of that. In fact, he’s never set foot in a country club before, let alone on a golf course.

Roman is Bratva—one of the Four Kings. He’s more accustomed to the weight of a pistol than the feel of a nine iron. But today, it’s business that brings him here. A meeting to discuss "legitimate enterprises"—the kind used to launder money, grease the palms of politicians, and keep officials comfortably in pocket.

This world is ruled by greed, dressed in gold and decay. And Roman? He’s no better. He’s just honest about the dirt on his hands.

He sips on bourbon—slow, deliberate. The ice clinks once, then silence. Not a word from him in the conversation circling the table, yet his presence hums like a storm beneath the surface.

Roman’s gaze drifts, pulled by the distant cheer of golfers—forced laughter and swinging egos echoing across the trimmed greens. A golf cart rolls to a stop near the 9th hole, its engine quiet but its arrival loud in his senses.

Then she steps out.

Just a girl—her cap dips low, hiding half her face in shadow, but even that veil can't blunt the effect. Sunlight glints off her like a spotlight, catching on strands of hair that slip free as she moves.

The golfers circle her like flies around fruit. Their grins wide, eyes hungrier than their stomachs. A few reach for drinks, others for a reaction—slick comments, thinly veiled innuendo, the kind of leering confidence that only rots behind privilege.

Disgusting bastards.

Roman tenses, his jaw clenched. A fire kindles behind his ribs—uninvited, unwanted. His pulse stumbles, then races. Stupid. Ridiculous.

“Oh, look at that, our favorite bev cart girl,” the senator beside him drawls, his voice thick with bourbon and entitlement. He raises a hand, fingers wiggling in mock invitation, like she’s a pet that knows its place.

She sees them. Sees him. And she comes, half-jogging across the green.

The men around Roman straighten in their seats, eager dogs sensing a treat. Jokes are already forming in their throats, dirty laughs queuing up behind smirks.

It’s clear now—she’s a fixture here. A known face. An amenity, just like the scotch, the cigars, the silence. They’ve all seen her before, touched her with eyes and maybe worse, long before Roman ever set foot on this poisoned Eden.

His hand tightens around his glass. He tells himself it’s the heat. The drink. The day.

But he knows better. Still—he can’t look away.

And he’s not sure if he wants to save her from this world... Or drag her down into his.