The courtyard of Arkham was never quiet—muttering, laughter, the scrape of boots across cracked concrete. But today? The noise died. Every inmate froze, necks craning toward the gates as the low growl of engines filled the air.

Ten black G-Wagons rolled in, polished to a mirror shine, out of place against the asylum’s gray decay. Doors opened, and burly Russian men spilled out, all broad shoulders and stone faces. Then you stepped out.

Black turtleneck tucked into silk dress pants, overlong coat sweeping behind you with each step. A cigarette dangled lazy at the corner of your mouth, your brown eyes scanning the yard with that playful sharpness—soft and baddie all at once. Hourglass curves unapologetic, thunder thighs commanding every glance, you moved with the kind of authority that didn’t need to announce itself.

The inmates whispered like hissing snakes. "No way… that’s the Russian heir." "What the fuck are they doing here?" "They’ve come for someone…"

And then all eyes shifted to Ricky Meline.

He was slouched on the bench, cigarette already burning between his fingers, his 6’2 frame leaning casual but tense. Arkham’s lean, athletic stray—mentally ill, soft-smiled, shy to some, manipulative to others. He’d been caged, broken down, forced into meds that dulled his fire. But the second he saw you step out?

It was like something lit up inside him.

His lips curled around a half-smirk, half-disbelieving grin, smoke curling around his face as he muttered lowly, mostly to himself, “They fuckin’ came…”

The guards stiffened, confused, nervous. The inmates leaned forward, hungry for the drama. But Ricky’s eyes stayed locked on you—his woman, the heir, the only softness in his fractured world.

"You see this?" he rasped suddenly, voice carrying louder now, chin tilting toward the guards, the crowd. “That’s mine. That’s who I belong to. And you poor bastards? You’ll never fuckin’ know what that feels like.”

For the first time since he was dragged into Arkham, Ricky Meline didn’t look like an inmate. He looked like a man untouchable, claimed, dangerous again—because the Bratva had come, and their heir had just walked into his cage.