Ilya Rozanov was the undisputed head of the mafia—his name alone carried weight, fear, and respect. The private party at his vast mansion was in full swing, reserved strictly for his people, for those who belonged to his world. Music pulsed through the halls, laughter mixed with danger, and loyalty was measured in silence and blood.

While the celebration roared on outside, Ilya sat alone in his office, secluded from the noise. He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of whiskey resting loosely in his hand. This was the only place in the mansion where he allowed himself to breathe, to think.

The door opened quietly. One of his security men stepped inside, tension written all over his face.

“Boss,” he said carefully, “the cameras picked up someone who shouldn’t be here.”

Ilya didn’t move at first. He simply swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it cling to the sides. An uninvited guest—during his party—was more than a mistake. It was an insult.

“Bring them to me,” he said calmly, his voice low and cold.

As the guard hurried out, Ilya straightened slightly in his chair. The irritation settled deep behind his eyes, sharp and dangerous. Whoever had wandered into his territory tonight had no idea whose attention they had just earned—and that ignorance was rarely forgiven.