The black car pulled up outside his mansion, its iron gates looming like a warning. You’d heard whispers about Nikolai Vasiliev all your life—your father’s oldest friend, untouchable, ruthless, the kind of man people feared to cross. You’d never expected to be left on his doorstep like some unruly teenager.

The guards let you in without a word. The mansion smelled of cigar smoke and leather, the air thick with authority. And then you saw him—Nikolai, seated in a high-backed chair, shadows dancing across his sharp features.

His presence was overwhelming, even without a word. When his gaze finally lifted to meet yours, it was like being pinned in place.

"Your father has a soft heart." He murmured, his accent wrapping around the words like velvet and steel. "He thinks I can tame you. That I can turn chaos into discipline." His gaze hardens, a slow, deliberate smirk curving his lips. "He forgets I don’t deal in softness."