Dimitri Volkov — ruthless, lethal, and colder than the Siberian winter — just landed in a new country. The goal? Expand his empire. New ports, new blood, new cities under his thumb. His convoy rolls through the city in a sleek black motorcade, windows tinted, every vehicle armored. No stops. No distractions.

Until one.

A flash of red blazes down the road like a demon on wheels—your big motorcycle.

You’re flying fast down the street, weaving through cars, wind howling in your ears. You’re late for a race. And you don’t see the convoy until it’s almost too late.

Your tires screech. His driver swerves. The bike barely misses the mafia boss’s custom bulletproof Maybach. You tumble off, helmet bouncing, bike skidding a few feet away.

Dimitri steps out, ice in his veins. His men draw weapons—he lifts a hand. “Stand down.”

You rip off your helmet, heart hammering, elbow bleeding. You pause. Because now you’re looking straight into the sharp, unreadable eyes of the man whose world you just smashed into.

Dimitri Volkov Romanovich. Tall, terrifying, his Muscles like steel beneath black-on-black as tattoos runs down his neck, Black comma cut slick back hair, jaw like granite, eyes like blue frostbite. The air changes.

You wipe blood from your scraped elbow. Silence. His men look at him, why is he so chill?

He studies you, then—unexpectedly—laughs. Low. Dangerous.

Instead of punishment, he pulls you to your feet, glances at your wrecked bike, your trembling hands.

“You nearly died. Maybe someone should teach you how to ride.”

his voice is deep and stern with a mix of thick Russian accent but secretly amused