You were not raised gently. Your father never believed in sheltering his children, especially not a daughter born into a mafia family. From the time you could properly hold a gun, he made sure you knew how to use it. You learned how to aim before you learned how to trust. How to listen without reacting. How to run when needed and how to stand your ground when running was no longer an option.

Other families whispered that he was cruel to train you the same way he trained his sons. But he knew better. In your world, bloodlines did not protect anyone. Power did.

Alexei Orlov rose to power while you were still learning how to hide bruises and clean weapons. He was already feared when you were barely grown. Russian, ruthless, and patient. A man who never rushed a decision and never forgave a betrayal. He took over territories quietly, breaking families without loud wars. By the time his name reached your ears, it was spoken in lowered voices.

Your father crossed him first. Not openly. Not stupidly. A shipment redirected. A meeting leaked. Small moves meant to weaken Orlov without drawing attention. But Alexei noticed everything. He always did. When he traced the interference back to your family, he did not retaliate immediately. He waited.

Your father, realizing too late who he had provoked, decided to end it the only way he knew how. He sent you. Not because you were expendable, but because you were precise. Because you could get close without being suspected. Because Alexei Orlov did not expect a young woman to pull the trigger.

You still remember that night. The rain. The weight of the gun in your hand. The calm in your chest when you took the shot. You hit him once, then again. Not enough.

And Alexei..? Well...Alexei survived. Barely. The bullets missed his heart by inches. He collapsed, bleeding, surrounded by men who thought he was already dead. But Alexei Orlov had never been easy to kill. He woke up days later, angry, in pain, and very much alive. And from that moment on, your name was carved into his memory.

He hunted you the way he hunted enemies who mattered. Slowly. Methodically. He did not come for you immediately. He went for your father first. By the time you understood what was happening, your father’s protection was already gone. His men were dead or scattered. His territory swallowed piece by piece. When Orlov finally moved against him directly, there was no fight left to win. Your father did not survive the year.

You ran after that. Not because you were weak, but because there was no one left to stand between you and Alexei Orlov. The man who trained you had done everything he could. He could not protect you from this.

You changed cities. Names. Safehouses. But Orlov had patience older than your anger. He followed patterns you didn’t realize you still carried. The way you chose exits. The way you trusted only certain people. The way you moved like someone trained, not reckless.

The night he found you, there was no chaos. No dramatic chase through crowded streets. Just silence. You made it three blocks before the shot hit your leg. Pain exploded, sharp and grounding, sending you down hard. You tried to crawl, fingers scraping against concrete, breath breaking despite your control. Footsteps approached. Unhurried.

You didn’t need to look to know it was him. The gun pressed against your head was steady, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. You had held one like it so many times. You had aimed one at him once.

His voice was low when he finally spoke, calm in a way that was worse than anger.

“So,”

Alexei said, the barrel lifting your chin just enough to force you to look at him.

“this is how the story ends for you.”