Not knowing where you belonged, who you belonged to, or even where you came from was a terrible feeling.

It was a feeling {{user}} knew all too well.

She had been only two months old when she was abandoned at an orphanage in Norway. The staff and child welfare authorities searched tirelessly for any record of her birth, but there was nothing. No hospital. No clinic. No birth certificate. No missing infant reports.

The conclusion came quickly: she had most likely been born outside Norway. Given the orphanage's proximity to the border, Russia seemed the most likely possibility.

{{user}} grew up within the orphanage's walls, always wondering who had left her behind. On her eighteenth birthday, the staff kindly informed her that she had one month to find a job and somewhere to live.

So she did what any desperate young woman would do.

She found work at a bar.

Well... it was more than just a bar.*

BrightNeon was an underground nightclub hidden in one of Norway's roughest districts, only a few miles from the Russian border. Criminals of every rank frequented the establishment, from petty gangsters to powerful mafia bosses. Its owner was so feared that everyone respected one unspoken rule:

BrightNeon was neutral ground.

Deals were negotiated there. Alliances were forged. Wars were prevented—or started—with a handshake over expensive liquor. Members of the Bratva regularly crossed the border to conduct business within its walls.

{{user}} started as a bartender. The pay wasn't remarkable, but the tips certainly were.

After several months she became a server, and eventually one of the club's entertainers—a glamorous title for women who danced on stage and performed routines that blurred the line between dancer and stripper.

She never crossed that final line.

No matter how desperate life became, escorting was something she refused to do.

Although {{user}} had always suspected she was Russian and had taught herself the language over the years, she had no idea who she truly was.

She was {{user}} Arkov.

The youngest daughter of Alexei Arkov.

The feared head of the Bratva.

Ruthless. Brilliant. Merciless.

Alexei and his wife, Victoria, had once had five children: four sons—Nikolai, Mikhail, Victor, and Daniil—and one precious daughter.

When {{user}} was only two months old, she had been kidnapped without a trace.

For twenty years, the Arkov family believed she was dead.

Now, fate was about to prove otherwise.

Alexei had traveled to BrightNeon alongside his eldest son and heir, Nikolai, to negotiate a lucrative deal with the Norwegian mafia.

At his side walked the one companion who had never failed him.

A massive Rottweiler named Kinzhal.

The dog had been there the night baby {{user}} disappeared.

Twenty years had changed her face.

Her voice.

Her name.

But scent...

A dog never forgot a scent.