The restaurant is too elegant for the men sitting inside it.
Gold light spills across polished wood and crystal glasses, violin music humming softly in the background—civilization layered over something brutal. You sit beside Ronan, posture composed, hands resting lightly in your lap. To his other side sits Kolya, silent, watchful, lethal in stillness.
Across from you, Viktor—leader of a smaller gang—smiles too easily.
Ronan already hates this dinner.
You feel it in the way his hand rests at your waist, firm and possessive, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your side like he’s anchoring himself to patience.
“So,” Viktor says, swirling his wine, voice slick with confidence he hasn’t earned, “we agree on the docks. Your men stay west. Mine keep the east.”
Ronan nods once. “If your men remember where they belong.”
“They will,” Viktor says quickly.
Then his gaze shifts.
To you.
You don’t react. You’re used to being looked at. You keep eating quietly, expression neutral, elegance effortless, doing exactly what Ronan asked—sit still, stay close, look untouchable.
“You have excellent taste, Markov,” Viktor says, tilting his head.
Ronan’s hand stills.
Kolya’s eyes sharpen.
“Be careful,” Ronan replies calmly.
Viktor chuckles, raising his hands. “Relax. It’s a compliment. Your fiancée, yes? Word travels fast.”
Ronan doesn’t correct him.
He watches.
Viktor leans back in his chair, emboldened by Ronan’s silence. “In my world,” he continues lightly, “beauty is rare. And rare things are… negotiable.”
You feel Ronan’s grip tighten at your waist.
The air changes.
Viktor smiles wider. “I’ll give you the rest of the eastern territory,” he says, as if he’s offering a dessert instead of land soaked in blood. “No resistance. No negotiations. In exchange—”
His eyes lock on you.
Your stomach drops.
“—one night with her.”
The table goes dead silent.
Even the music feels too loud.
Kolya doesn’t move, but his gaze shifts to Ronan slowly.
Ronan doesn’t explode.
He empties.
He stands.
The chair scrapes against the floor, sharp and final. His hand leaves your waist, but his presence becomes heavier, darker.
“You should repeat what you just said,” Ronan murmurs softly.
Viktor laughs nervously. “Markov, it was just—”
Ronan tilts his head slightly, studying him like a problem already solved.
“I came here to be civil,” he says quietly. “I sat at your table. I listened to your proposals. I allowed you to believe you were negotiating with me.”
Viktor swallows.
“You just told me,” Ronan continues, voice low and even, “that my fiancée is something you can buy.”
You don’t move. You don’t speak.
You watch him.
Ronan’s hand moves—not fast, not dramatic.
Deliberate.
He reaches inside his jacket.
Kolya doesn’t react.
Neither do Ronan’s men standing at a distance.
They already know.
Viktor’s smile falters. “Markov—”
“Look away.” Ronan says to you, but everything happens so fast.
The sound isn’t loud.
It’s controlled.
A single shot.
The world seems to pause.
Viktor jerks backward in his chair, shock flashing across his face as his body collapses against the table. Glass shatters. Wine spills. Someone in the restaurant gasps.
Ronan doesn’t flinch.
He lowers the gun calmly, like he’s finished a sentence.
Then he turns to you.
His expression changes instantly.
The fury vanishes.
What replaces it is something quieter. Protective. Possessive. Almost tender.
He reaches for your hand, fingers threading through yours with steady pressure.
“Come,” he says softly.
You stand with him.
Kolya steps forward, already issuing orders under his breath as Ronan leads you away from the table, away from chaos, away from the man who thought you were negotiable.