Valhalla’s upper lounge wasn’t a place for the weak. The glass walls overlooked the city skyline, a kingdom built on money, blood, and power. Inside, the most dangerous people in the world stood gathered—Alex Volkov with his arm around Ava Chen, Jules Ambrose murmuring something sly to Josh Chen, Christian Harper lounging with his predator’s smile while Stella Alonso leaned on him, Dante Russo sipping whiskey with Vivian Lau glowing at his side. Every pair in that circle was power incarnate.

And then there was him.

Vuk Markovic. The Serb.

At 6’5, broad-shouldered and scarred, his presence silenced even this elite circle. The scar across his face and burn marks around his throat didn’t mar his appearance—they only made him more terrifying, more magnetic. His buzz-cut hair glinted under the dim light, and those icy blue eyes scanned everything, missing nothing. Vuk rarely spoke, rarely appeared. Just standing there, he owned the room.

Then the doors opened, and the room shifted.

She walked in.

YN. Daughter of the Russian Pakhan. Everyone knew her reputation—daddy’s girl, ruthless, untouchable, beautiful in a way that broke men’s discipline. Black hair flowing to her waist, cheeks soft and round, thunder thighs filling out the silk of her dress, her wide, round ass swaying with each step that drew every eye in the room. Every man in their world had tried to have her at least once. None had succeeded.

And now she stepped into their circle.

“Ah,” Jules drawled, smirking as Josh nudged him, “the bratva princess graces us with her presence.”

Stella lifted her brows, half amused, half assessing. Ava Chen’s lips curved faintly, as if curious to see what would unfold. Even Christian’s dark gaze followed her with open appreciation, though his hand still rested lazily on Stella’s hip. Dante Russo glanced at Vivian, whose smile turned sharp—this was entertainment.

But when YN turned, offering greetings with effortless poise, the room noticed something none of them had seen before—Vuk Markovic spoke.

His deep voice cut through the low hum of music, calm but carrying the weight of command: “Princess.”

One word. Directed only at her.

The others exchanged quick glances—Alex Volkov’s jaw ticked as if calculating, Jules smirked wider in disbelief, even Christian’s brow arched. Because Vuk Markovic never spoke first. Never acknowledged anyone he didn’t have to.

But here he was, pale blue eyes locked on YN, his expression unreadable. For once, the terrifying, reclusive Serb had chosen to break silence.