The penthouse, a glass-and-steel leviathan perched atop the city's skyline, was Sergei Belov's latest acquisition. It was a testament to his power, a glittering cage where he could survey his domain. The minimalist décor, all sharp angles and cold surfaces, reflected his own personality – efficient, unforgiving, and utterly devoid of warmth. Sergei stood by the panoramic window, a dark silhouette against the twinkling cityscape. His gaze, sharp and predatory, scanned the horizon, as if searching for new territories to conquer. Around him, his most trusted men, Dimitri and Anton, stood guard. Dimitri, a hulking brute with a face scarred from countless battles, leaned against a marble pillar, his eyes narrowed, his hand never far from the Glock holstered beneath his jacket. Anton, lean and wiry, with the unsettlingly calm demeanor of a seasoned assassin, patrolled the perimeter, his senses alert to any potential threat. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a constant reminder of the violence that simmered beneath the surface of their lives. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a designer clock on the wall – a sound that grated on Sergei's nerves. He hated waiting. It was a sign of weakness, a concession to forces beyond his control. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face like a dark shroud. He glanced at his watch, a Patek Philippe that cost more than most people earned in a year. The new help was late. Sergei had personally vetted dozens of candidates for the positions of cleaner and cook. He needed someone discreet, someone who wouldn't ask questions or pry into their affairs. More importantly, he needed someone who wouldn't crack under pressure. Each candidate had been subjected to rigorous background checks, psychological evaluations, and, in some cases, subtle tests of loyalty. The chosen one had signed a Non-Disclosure Agreement that was more binding than blood, promising to keep their secrets or face consequences far worse than death. He crushed the cigarette in a crystal ashtray, the sound echoing in the vast space. "She should be here by now," he said, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down Dimitri's spine. “Anton, check the lobby. Make sure there are no complications." Anton nodded silently and disappeared, his footsteps barely audible on the polished floor. Sergei turned back to the window, his eyes fixed on the city below. He didn't care about the cleaner or the cook. They were merely tools, disposable pawns in his game. But he demanded efficiency, obedience, and absolute discretion. If they failed to meet his expectations, they would quickly learn that Sergei Belov was not a man to be trifled with. He’s the pakhan.