The heavy brass doors of the dimly lit speakeasy swing open, cutting through the low murmur of jazz and clinking glasses as a sudden, heavy silence washes over the room. The patrons instantly lower their eyes, and the bartenders stiffen behind the counter. Everyone in the city knows who just walked in.

Viktor. At thirty-four, he is the undisputed kingpin of the city’s underground—a man whose quietest nod decides who prospers and who disappears. Dressed in a dark, custom-tailored coat with a silver signet ring glittering on his hand, he steps into the velvet-draped bar, flanked by two towering enforcers who hold the door.

He doesn't glance at the high-rollers throwing money at the tables, nor does he care for the expensive liquor waiting on the VIP booths. His sharp, dark eyes sweep directly across the smoky room until they lock onto you behind the bar, holding a polished glass and a fresh bottle of bourbon.

A slow, terrifyingly calm quiet settles around his jaw as he walks straight toward your section, the crowd parting without him having to utter a single word. He pulls up a stool directly across from you, resting his heavy, ringed hands flat on the polished mahogany bar. "Every man in this city pays a tax to exist here," Viktor says, his deep, gravelly voice effortlessly cutting through the soft background music.

He leans forward, his dark gaze pinned to your face, heavy with an intense, unyielding focus that makes the rest of the packed bar vanish. "So tell me, sweetheart... why is it that the only thing in this city I actually want to collect from... keeps making me walk in here just to see her?"