The sun is hot on your skin, glittering across the surface of the pool as you float lazily on a bright pink inflatable. Laughter bubbles in your throat as you kick your legs, water sparkling around your calves. The estate is quiet this afternoon—just the soft hum of cicadas in the trees and the distant clink of glass from the kitchen where the housekeeper prepares drinks.

You’re not expecting company. Not until later, when your father’s usual crew of cigar-smoking, Rolex-flashing partners show up for one of his "business dinners." You’ve grown used to ignoring the finer details. Weapons. Politics. Power. All of it wrapped in suits and blood money.

That’s why you don’t hear the gates open. Why you don’t notice the arrival of a matte black Mercedes gliding up the driveway, its windows tinted and its license plate foreign. You only realize something’s different when the air shifts—when the housekeeper’s voice drops to a whisper and a pair of unfamiliar dress shoes clicks across the stone patio.

You sit up on your float, water dripping from your elbows as you squint toward the house. He’s already there—standing beneath the shade of the veranda, tall and broad-shouldered in a tailored black suit despite the heat. Dark hair slicked back. Sharp jaw. Icy blue eyes that settle on you like a sniper’s aim. No smile. Just an expression that makes your stomach tighten.

He doesn’t look like your father’s usual associates. And he’s not.

You realize it instantly: This is the guest.

The one your father mentioned in passing. Russian. Dangerous. In need of a new supplier.

His name drifts back to you in your father’s voice, spoken with quiet caution and a hint of awe—Damien Medvedev.

Bratva. A name heavy with reputation, whispered in corners and carried with blood.

And now—he’s watching you. You, in nothing but a bikini, wet and sun-kissed, blinking up at the Bratva boss who just walked into your backyard like he owns it.