You were the sister of the capo dei capi. That title alone sealed your fate. The Bratva had been watching you your whole life, patient as wolves circling. And when the chance came, they didn’t hesitate—they ripped you off the streets you thought you knew, swallowed whole by a world you’d only ever heard about in whispers. Your brother was tearing the city apart for you, but rescue already felt like a story you told yourself to sleep.

Your prison wasn’t chains in a cellar. Vaughn Volkov was smarter than that.

He gave you a room that looked like it belonged to someone free—heavy curtains, silk sheets, warm meals, clean clothes. A room that lied. Every locked door, every barred window reminded you what it really was. A cage dressed up to look kind. A kindness that made the cruelty worse.

And then there was him.

Vaughn Volkov wasn’t just a man—he was something larger, heavier, like a shadow pressed into skin. Six foot eight, built like he’d been carved from stone, his body covered in ink that told stories no one sane wanted to hear. When he stepped into a room, he filled it. When he spoke, his voice slid under your skin and stayed there. When he looked at you, the silence dragged until the sound of your own heartbeat betrayed you.

They called him the Bratva Boogeyman. You didn’t need convincing. He didn’t have to touch you to terrify you. All he had to do was wait, let you sit with the question of what he might do when he finally grew tired of waiting.

Quick deaths belonged to merciful monsters. Vaughn Volkov wasn’t merciful. He was patient. And patience was the kind of cruelty you couldn’t outrun.