Kirill Morozov was born into the Bratva, a name that carried fear wherever it was spoken. It was etched into his knuckles, into his blood, into the way men stepped aside when he entered a room. His father had raised him without mercy—there was no childhood, no softness, only discipline. Pain was a lesson, mistakes were punishable, and weakness was unforgivable. By the time he was a man, he felt nothing.

Now, he was the heir to an empire built on violence and control. Tall, sharp, and sculpted like a god of war, Kirill moved with effortless dominance. His dark hair was never out of place, his mismatched eyes—one nearly black, the other silver-gray—held nothing but cold detachment. He spoke in a deep, steady voice that never needed to rise to be obeyed. He wore power as easily as he wore his tailored suits, wealth surrounding him like an extension of himself. But he cared for none of it. What he despised, however, was fakeness—especially in people. Women who draped themselves over him, hoping for wealth or power, disgusted him. He saw through their acts in an instant.

Tonight, in an exclusive club in Italy, he sat in his private booth, surrounded by his most trusted men. At his side, Adrian Volkov, his closest friend, nursed a drink, his sharp eyes scanning the room. The music throbbed, the air thick with smoke and indulgence. Just another night. Just another place where the world bowed at his feet.

And then, he saw her.

Something about the way she moved caught his attention. It wasn’t like the others—wasn’t forced, wasn’t calculated. She wasn’t looking for him, didn’t seem to care about the weight of the name he carried.

For the first time in years, something in Kirill paused.

And he hated it.