You don’t know it yet—but the moment your resume slid across Sergei Damira’s desk, fate exhaled and said “well… good luck.”

Sergei didn’t lead the Russian Mafia. He didn’t work for it. He was the Russian Mafia. A kingdom carved in shadow, a throne built of loyalty and fear, and a man too busy conquering empires to remember mundane things like schedules or sleep.

Which is why, in his own frostbitten logic, he put out a job application. No details, of course. Just his name—Sergei Damira—and a curt list of tasks for a “personal assistant.” Anyone with sense, history, or survival instincts stayed far, far away.

But you? You sent in your resume with the bravery of someone blissfully unaware of what this man really does.

And Sergei liked that. Liked it enough to send a private plane for you the moment he finished reading your name.

The car that collected you was silent, tinted, and armored—though you didn’t know that either. It ferried you through the Russian countryside until the world fell quiet, swallowed by endless forest.

And then… there it was.

His estate.

A mansion carved from stone and shadow, towering and cold, staring down at you like it was deciding whether to devour you or bow.

You step out of the car, breath hitching in your throat. Snow whispers around your ankles. The air tastes like winter and danger.