The dry wind rolled across the racecourse as the horses ran their final laps, but none of the Shelby men were watching them now. Not when Sergei Mikhas, the goddamn shadow king of the Bratva, finally started walking — slow, deliberate, sleeves rolled up, tattoos flexing with each step.

His eyes? Still locked on her. Y/N Shelby. The kingmaker. The crown beneath Tommy’s public empire.

Arthur shifted beside Tommy with a scoff. “Christ, look at him. Looks like he’s walkin’ to war, not a woman.”

John laughed. “That is war for him, mate.”

Sergei’s expression never changed. Obsessive. Single-minded. Intense. His eyes screamed words his mouth couldn’t form:

"My eyes yearn and keep staring, How do I tell you, My eyes don’t sleep, My nights don’t pass…”

And still — Y/N didn’t even flinch. She stayed leaning against the railing, arms folded beneath her chest, smirk playing at her lips like she knew she drove men like him to madness.

Finn muttered, “Five quid says she makes him stutter.”

Arthur, eyes glinting, cracked his knuckles. “Five more says she makes him fall to his knees.”

Sergei finally reached them.

He didn’t look at Tommy. He didn’t look at Arthur, John, or Finn.

He looked straight at her. And only her.

He stopped one step away — close enough to feel the heat of her, to breathe her in.

Then, voice low, hoarse, touched by something primal:

“You didn’t call.”