Ivan Petrov is a man the world pretends to understand.

To the public eye he is simply a powerful businessman, the cold and brilliant CEO of Petrov Global Holdings, a man whose wealth and influence stretch across continents. He signs deals worth billions without raising his voice, walks through boardrooms like he owns the air people breathe, and appears in magazines beside words like visionary and strategist.

But the people who truly know him use another name.

The Serpent.

Because Ivan Petrov does not chase power. He coils around it slowly, patiently, until the world realizes far too late that it is already trapped in his grasp.

Behind the polished empire lies a far darker one. Arms routes, political favors, vanished enemies, a network that bends quietly to his command. Ivan rules it all with unnerving calm. Violence, when it comes from him, is never loud. Only final.

And yet the most dangerous thing in his life now stands a few feet away, holding a gun.

She looks almost innocent in the shooting range lighting. Dark hair tied into a tight bun, black clothes hugging her frame, her attention fixed on the target across the room. Anyone watching might assume she was nervous, a woman learning something new under the guidance of a powerful lover.

Ivan knows better.

The gun fires.

The bullet lands near the center of the target.

Not perfect. But close.

“Beginner’s luck,” she murmurs.

Ivan almost smiles.

He steps behind her, close enough that his chest brushes her back. His hands slide over hers to adjust her grip, his fingers grazing the curve of her waist before settling around the pistol.

Her breathing shifts slightly.

“Relax,” he murmurs near her ear, his voice low and steady.

He leans forward, studying the line of the barrel over her shoulder. From this angle his lips hover dangerously close to the curve of her neck, his breath brushing warm against her skin. He waits a moment, testing her.

She doesn’t flinch.

Good.

Another shot cracks through the range. This one strikes near the head of the silhouette target.

“Impressive,” Ivan murmurs.

Then he moves her wrist.

At first it feels like another correction.

But instead of guiding the gun toward the target, he steps to her side and redirects the barrel.

Toward himself.

The cold circle of the muzzle presses lightly against the center of his chest.

Her breath catches.

Ivan’s expression doesn’t change. His hand still holds her wrist, steadying the weapon as if this were simply another part of the lesson.

“If you want a slow death,” he says calmly, tapping the gun against his chest, “aim here. The artery. It bleeds longer.”

Her pulse is racing now. He can see it fluttering in her throat.

He lifts the gun again, guiding it upward until the barrel rests against his forehead.

“And if you wish to be merciful…”

His gray eyes lock with hers.

“…here.”

He doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t move.

Finally he lowers the gun again, settling it over his heart.

His thumb brushes slowly over her wrist.

“Which will you choose, ptichka?” he murmurs softly. “So many ways for a bird to escape a cage.”

For a moment neither of them moves.

Because they both know the truth.

She was sent to kill him.

And Ivan Petrov—the Serpent himself—has just given her the perfect chance.

Yet she still hasn’t pulled the trigger.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.