The city moved like a pulse under the sodium lights—amber veins of traffic, restless horns, and the smell of wet asphalt after a brief summer rain. Ilya Rostova drove with one hand on the wheel, the other lazily resting on the gearshift, fingers drumming against the leather in a rhythm only he understood.

He didn't get to do this often. Drive alone. No security detail muscled into the backseat, no convoy of black SUVs shadowing him like loyal hounds, no bodyguards waiting outside restaurants, clubs, meeting halls. Just him, the purr of his Aston Martin cutting through Manhattan's veins, and New York pretending to be peaceful for once.

The air smelled like rain and exhaust. His suit jacket was open, white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, throat bare—loosened from the strangling etiquette of board meetings and bratva politics. The kind of freedom that only came when no one was watching. His mind, however, never stopped working. It never did.

He had the kind of face that looked carved, not born—hard lines softened only by the flicker of passing streetlights. Blond hair, cropped neat. Golden-brown eyes that looked like they'd seen too much, calibrated to catch everything: the drunk businessman stumbling out of a bar three blocks back, the way that delivery truck took the corner too fast, the homeless man's hand positioning toward his jacket pocket. Always calculating. Always assessing threats.

One of four brigadiers of the Volkov family. That meant power. It also meant paranoia was less a personality trait and more a survival instinct.

He'd just come from a meeting with the Serbians—legitimate, if any of their operations could claim that word. Import-export. Shipping. Money laundering clothed in the language of business. Someone had been skimming. Someone always was. Ilya had sat across from them in a penthouse overlooking Central Park and explained, very calmly, what happened to people who didn't understand the meaning of "respect" and "percentage." No raised voice. No theatrics. Just facts, delivered in Russian so thick and cold it didn't need translation.

The man had gone pale anyway.

Now, driving through the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan at nearly midnight, Ilya let himself think about nothing. That was rare. Precious. His mind usually ran like a machine gun—ten steps ahead, cataloging weaknesses in his supply chain, wondering if that Ukrainian crew was really settling their debts or planning something stupid, considering which of his subordinates was ambitious enough to become dangerous.

But for once, the city didn't feel like an enemy. The rain smelled clean. The car hummed beneath him like a predator at rest. For once—

Crash.

The jolt hit before the sound registered. Metal against metal. His hand shot to the wheel with reflexive speed, correcting the spin before the car could kiss the divider. Tires screeched, horn blared, and his pulse spiked—not in fear. Never in fear. But in disbelief so sharp it was almost insulting.

He braked hard, teeth clenched, engine growling low in protest as the car shuddered to a stop.

Through the rearview mirror: a smaller car. Something cheap, plastic, trembling against his rear bumper like a frightened animal. Its front was crumpled like paper. Like it had barely survived impact with a wall, let alone a vehicle worth more than most people's houses.

Through the cracked windshield, he could see you. Wide eyes. Frozen mid-panic.

Ilya sat for a moment, engine still running, rain starting again—faint mist catching the streetlight. He exhaled slow, controlled, like he was counting. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The irritation was immediate, visceral, followed by a flicker of something darker—disbelief bordering on amusement.

Of all the ways to have his peace interrupted.

He stepped out, long frame unfolding from the low car with predatory grace. His shoes clicked against the wet pavement.

“...you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered in Russian under his breath.

Your door opened shakily. Mouth gaping like Koi.