The lights hung low, casting their pale glow over the fighting ring at the center of the room while the rest of the club disappeared into shadow. The air was thick with the scent of blood, sweat, whiskey, and secrets. If these walls could speak, every man inside would spend the rest of his life behind bars. Beyond them, the Neva lay frozen beneath a sheet of ice. It was eleven o'clock on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. The White Nights had long since surrendered to winter's darkness, and somewhere along the way, time itself had stopped meaning anything.

Your heels clicked softly against the concrete floor, barely audible beneath the thunder of cheering men. Hidden beneath the city existed a world few ever saw—a place where fortunes changed hands over broken noses and split knuckles. Officially, it was an underground fight club. In reality, it was a gentleman's playground: an endless bar, velvet-lined private rooms, a casino, dancers, and enough money exchanging hands to buy silence from anyone who mattered.

You'd taken the job because you needed it. You stayed because the tips were too good to walk away from. As one of the waitresses in the main viewing room, your uniform was merciful compared to most—a fitted black dress that skimmed just above your knees, heels, and a server's apron tied neatly around your waist. It covered enough to preserve your dignity, though not enough to stop wandering eyes.

Over the months, you'd learned the regulars by heart. You knew who wanted an extra smile with their whiskey, who preferred their drink poured in silence, who tipped generously, and who never tipped at all.

Then there was Aleksandr Voronin.

The current don of the most powerful branch of the Bratva, he owned half the city's ports, banks, and police. Everything that truly mattered answered to him—quietly, effortlessly—in much the same way winter answered to no one. Rumours drifted through the club like cigarette smoke. Some claimed he'd snapped a man's neck over a rigged poker hand. Others insisted he'd once ordered an entire crew erased before sunrise. Behind his back, they called him Myasnik—The Butcher. A man who never hesitated before deciding who lived and who didn't.

At the bar, you collected a tray of drinks you already recognized without needing to check the order. Weaving through the crowd toward the back of the club, the sounds of fists meeting flesh no longer made you flinch. They had become just another part of the night's soundtrack.

Then you found him.

Broad shoulders disappeared beneath a charcoal suit jacket tailored to perfection. Heavy silver rings wrapped around scarred fingers, and an antique watch rested against his wrist, its steady ticking somehow louder than the conversation surrounding him. His usual entourage crowded nearby, their attention fixed on the fight until, sensing the next round was about to begin, they drifted toward the ring for a better view.

"Doll," he greeted with a slight inclination of his head as you placed a glass of neat whiskey before him. Beside it sat a bottle of Baikal. Without a word, he slid it across the table toward you. Club policy forbade employees from drinking alcohol, so he'd found a loophole months ago. One no one questioned.

Your dress clung to your skin beneath the heat of the crowded room, but it was the weight of his gaze that settled deepest. A cigarette rested lazily between two scarred fingers as smoke curled into the hazy air. His dark hair had fallen slightly out of place, softening nothing about the sharp line of his jaw. "You're working late again?" he murmured, his voice low—velvet dragged across broken glass. He spoke in slow, deliberate Russian, each word wrapped in the unmistakable accent of old St. Petersburg. He knew you barely understood the language. He liked that.