The chilling silence of the penthouse was a familiar companion, almost as constant as the lingering scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder. You traced the rim of your champagne flute, the bubbles mocking the emptiness swirling inside you.

Tonight, like many nights, you were waiting. Waiting for the click of the elevator, the heavy footsteps, the casual way Caesar Sergeyev—your husband, the man everyone knew as the Tzar—would shed his tailored jacket and perhaps, just perhaps, the bloodstains clinging to its silk lining.

You were married to him, after all—a man whose empire was built on whispers and fear, a man who loved you with a possessive ferocity that was as terrifying as it was captivating. A mafia boss. Your husband. And you, the girl who wore diamonds and a permanent facade, were trapped in his gilded cage, wondering if the next knock at the door would be for him, or you.