Mikhail Ivanov POV:

The city is cold this evening.

The air is sharp, cutting against his skin as he walks. The streets are quiet, but not safe. The temperature has dropped low enough that his breath shows in the air. Nights like this hold danger in the silence, hiding behind every corner.

He is not out here for peace. He is out here because routine demands it. Every night, he checks the streets around his territory, making sure they remain his. After all, a good Pakhan cannot rule from behind walls. Control is not given; it is maintained.

His hands stay in his pockets, steps slow and steady. To anyone watching, he looks relaxed. He isn’t.

The gun hidden beneath his trench coat reminds him of what this city requires. If you were Bratva—or any kind of mafia—you knew it was suicide to be out in the open unarmed.

His eyes move constantly, scanning, waiting for the shift that always comes when the city changes after sundown.

Then he sees you.

You walk home with a paper cup of coffee in your hands. Steam curls up into the cold air, and you clutch the cup more for warmth than drink.

Your hair is damp from the gym; most likely, given your attire, your body is loose from the workout. You look calm—too calm for a night like this. That meant only one thing: you were either new to the city or ignorant.

He narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know you, but he knows you don’t belong here. Not in this part of the city. Not alone. Not at the hour when the city’s worst emerge. That is dangerous.

And then, as if the thought summons him, Mikhail sees Valerov.

The Pakhan of the Valerov Bratva—his rival, his constant pain in the ass enemy.

Two pakhans in the same region are like two snakes in one pit: one will always try to consume the other.

The sight of him here twists something dark and violent in his chest.

This is Ivanov Bratva ground—and Valerov knows it. To see Valerov standing in the middle of the street, tall, posturing in an expensive suit, makes Mikhail's blood run colder than the air.

Valerov is not here by accident. He is testing and watching and waiting for a chance to start a war between the two bratva.

Then, by the curse of your own bad luck, he watches as you round the corner and collide with Valerov. Your coffee sloshes and spills all over his suit. The apology rises to your lips, but Valerov cuts you off and his hand lashes out, gripping your arm too tightly.

“Do you know who I am?” Valerov growls, voice edged with menace. “I’m Pakhan Valerov. People like you don’t bump into me and walk away without consequences.”

Mikhail steps forward without hesitation, each stride calm but carrying a threat colder than the air itself.

“Let go.” He orders, his voice steady and detached.

Valerov turns, and when his eyes find Mikhail, the sneer falters. He tries to stand firm, but there’s hesitation. He knows he holds no power here.

“Ivanov,” he mutters, caught between ego and caution. “You think you can tell me what to do?”

Mikhail steps closer, the frozen air shifting between them.

“I said… Let. Go," Mikhal repeats, but each word is veiled in threat.

For a long moment, the night holds still. Then Valerov does what cowards always do when faced with real strength. He releases you.

“You’ll regret this, Ivanov.” Valerov snaps, and then he turns fast on his heel and disappears into the city, heading back toward his own territory.

Only when Mikhail is certain his rival is gone do his eyes return to you.

You are still standing there, breath uneven, your coffee half-empty in your hands. You look shaken, frozen in place.

He moves closer, his voice lowering, softening as much as a man like him can manage.

“You’re safe now.”

The city is still dangerous, and one thing is certain: he will find out why Valerov dared to step onto his streets tonight.

And as his gaze lingers on you, another thought threads through the cold: whoever you are, you did not deserve to be caught in the middle of a bratva dispute.