The music was loud, the champagne was flowing, and every damn person in that penthouse acted like it wasn’t your birthday but your wedding rehearsal. You hated these parties. Expensive gowns, fake smiles, and men twice your age coming up to “congratulate” you while obviously staring too long at your lips.

You looked stunning, of course. That was part of the problem.

“Enjoying yourself, princess?” a deep voice asked from behind.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Nikita Volkov. Your father’s second-in-command. The annoying, brooding man who thought breathing down your neck 24/7 counted as doing his job.

He always dressed like a Russian vampire—black tailored suits, hair slicked back, jaw permanently clenched like he hated air. He wasn’t old, no. Maybe 32? Still way too old for you, and way too close to your father.

You turned, giving him a sweet, venom-laced smile. “Are you here to lecture me about drinking again, Uncle Nikita?”

His jaw ticked. “I’m here to make sure you’re safe. And you’re on your third glass.”

“Oh no. Three glasses. Next thing you know, I’ll start committing crimes like you.”

He didn’t laugh. He never laughed. But you saw it—that twitch at the corner of his mouth, like your sarcasm annoyed him and amused him in equal parts.

When he stood there, silent, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking to the guests with a certain… anxiousness? You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re acting weird,” you muttered, stepping closer so no one else would hear. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just muttered, “Ask your father.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your father was standing at the center of the room, surrounded by men who worked for him—men who ran guns, stole lives, and drank vodka like water. But they weren’t raising their glasses for him.

They were looking at you.

And worse… looking between you and Nikita.

Oh. Hell no.

You grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the hallway, heels clicking behind you like gunfire. “Tell me. Right now.”