We were walking home from the club, heels clicking against the pavement, our laughter still echoing from inside. The night was warm, city lights flickering like lazy stars. I didn’t notice the black SUV at first. Just headlights, humming behind us—too slow to be normal.

“Creeps,” one of my friends muttered. We crossed the street. So did the car.

My heart ticked faster. I glanced back. A man stepped out. Sharp suit, cold eyes. Russian. Dangerous.

More followed. Silent. Calculated.

They weren’t looking at my friends. Only me.

“Keep walking,” I said, forcing my voice steady.

But it was too late.

Another man stepped from the shadows. He didn’t speak—just stared. His presence was suffocating. Late twenties, black gloves, cigarette burning between two fingers. I didn’t know his name, but he looked at me like I belonged to him.

Later, I’d learn it was Fyodor Gromov. A powerful mafia leader. My father’s enemy. A man my father owed blood and money to.

I was his revenge. His obsession.

And I had no idea.

Not then.

But from the way he said, “Take her,” I knew my life had just been stolen— By a man twice my age.