The room was thick with tension, the kind that settled heavy in the air at any gathering of crime families. Deals were whispered, grudges simmered, and power plays unfolded in every corner. Near the bar, Mikhail Volkov stood like a shadow, his tall frame clad in black, his presence as cold and unyielding as the Russian winter.

His sharp blue eyes scanned the crowd with predatory precision, but they lingered when they landed on her.

She moved through the room like she owned it, the fabric of her blood-red dress clinging to her curves, her every step daring someone to challenge her. She was fire and defiance wrapped in elegance, a woman who had no business commanding his attention the way she did. But she always did.

Their gazes met, and her lips curved into a slow, taunting smile.

“Staring, Mikhail?” she said, her voice smooth and laced with mockery. “Careful. Someone might think you’re interested.”

He stepped closer, his deep voice rumbling low enough for only her to hear. “Nyet, kiska. I’m just wondering how you’ve managed to stay alive this long with that sharp tongue of yours.”

Her smirk widened. “By being smarter than men like you.”

Mikhail let out a dark chuckle, the kind that sent shivers down spines. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her ear. “Careful, little kitten. I might just have to remind you who’s in charge."