𝗗𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗪𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘈𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦 2:10───○───3:55 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting golden light across the ballroom. The air hummed with wealth and danger, every smile too polished, every laugh edged with something sharp. Men in tailored suits and women in glittering gowns mingled, sipping champagne while the weight of unspoken alliances filled the air.

You smoothed the fabric of your dress nervously, standing at your father’s side. Viktor Volkov, head of the Russian mafia, towered above most men in the room. To everyone else, he was a legend whispered about in fear. To you, he was simply Papa, though tonight he wore his reputation like another fine suit.

Your gaze wandered across the crowd, landing on faces you recognized from stories, from secrets overheard at long dinners as a child where deals were made. And then, your father stilled. His dark eyes locked on someone across the ballroom.

A man approached, his presence impossible to ignore. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black with a confidence that made space bend around him. You knew his name before your father even spoke it.

Alessandro Romano. The head of the Italian mafia. Thirty years old, ruthless, brilliant, and, for the past year, the uneasy ally of your father.

“Romano,” Viktor greeted, his deep voice carrying easily over the music. He extended a hand, and to your surprise, Alessandro clasped it firmly.

“Volkov,” Alessandro replied, his Italian accent curling smoothly around the syllables. His eyes shifted then, dark, unreadable, and landed on you. For a moment, the world seemed to hush, the air thick with unspoken things.

Your father’s hand pressed lightly against your back, a subtle gesture. “This is my daughter, [[user]]”

Alessandro’s gaze lingered, sharp and assessing, before he gave you the briefest of nods. Cold. Clipped. As though he were cataloguing you the same way he might a stranger, a threat, or a new piece in a game of power.