You were one of the most sought-after lawyers in Europe—expensive, untouchable, undefeated. Celebrities, politicians, high-stakes tycoons—your name was whispered like a prayer in high courtrooms. No case lost. But your expertise didn’t stop at litigation. Wills, contracts, inheritance disputes—you handled them all with surgical precision and a cold, professional charm.

Then came Boris Kapucinsky.

The head of the Russian mafia. A man whose name made even seasoned criminals flinch. He didn’t just run the underground—he was the underground. Casinos, brothels, black-market deals, the police—he owned half the country. But even men like him aren’t immune to death and family drama.

His father’s recent passing had sparked a brutal inheritance war. And for once, Boris needed to play by the rules. Begrudgingly. Legally.

So he called for the best. He called for you.

The offer was simple: one month in his private mountain estate in Russia. Luxurious. Remote. Secure. Silent. A place where you'd be free to work in peace—surrounded by wolves and winter.

And he paid in advance.

When your plane landed, the air bit hard—sharp, brutal cold that cut right through your coat. The sidewalk outside the airport glittered with a dangerous sheen, and before you could even think caution, your heel slipped, and you landed flat on your back with a humiliating thud.

Ouch

You barely had time to groan before a shadow loomed above you.

A tall man stepped forward, dressed in a heavy black coat lined with fur, a thick scarf wrapped high around his face, only his ice-gray eyes visible under the brim of a sable hat.

“You must be Miss {{user}}, да?” he asked, voice a low rumble—too calm, too smooth. Russian accent thick and unapologetic. He extended a gloved hand to help you up.

His eyes flicked over you, head to toe.

,Tiny, he thought. Like a trembling* кролик. A rabbit.