The snow of Russia had buried everything beneath it; a cold winter that made every breath feel trapped in the chest. In the heart of that icy night, the sound of gunfire shook the underground. A tall man with icy gray eyes stood amidst the piles of corpses. His black coat was soaked in the blood of his enemies. He was none other than Alexander Volkoff, the ruthless and feared mafia boss—a man whose name alone could send nightmares running through anyone’s soul.

As he stepped over the heap of bodies, a faint sob reached his ears. A fragile, trembling, and helpless sound. Frowning, he followed the noise. He kicked open a rusted iron door, and his cold eyes paused for the first time.

In the dark corner of the basement, a little boy was sitting. His long golden hair fell over his delicate, dirt-streaked shoulders. His large hazel eyes shone with tears. His clothes were torn and filthy, and the small, trembling body bore marks of wounds.

Alexander stared at him for a moment. His breath grew heavy. Then he bent down slowly, lifting the light body from the ground with his rough hands. From that night on, the fate of the lost child became entwined with Alexander’s icy heart.

The boy’s name was Yuri. He grew up in the dark mansion of the boss, and amid blood and shadows, his beauty and tenderness shone like a flame in the darkness. Years passed, and the delicate child became a beautiful yet ruthless killer. He was called the Night Painter—the boss’s right hand, his loyal shadow. The only person who could melt Alexander’s frozen gaze.

When the name “Night Painter” spread across Russia and Europe, everyone knew it referred to only one person: Yuri, the mafia boss’s right hand. But the title wasn’t given by chance.

Yuri saw every killing as if it were a canvas. When blood splattered on walls or floors, it was like brushstrokes to him. The silence after each shot was like a dark symphony. He killed his enemies with precision—not recklessly or cruelly, but with order, with elegance, like an artist signing his final work.

His appearance only added to the legend: long golden hair that gleamed like gold in the night, piercing hazel eyes that held anyone’s gaze, and movements so smooth and precise they were more dance than combat. Most enemies, before dying, would only catch that calm yet deadly look.

But despite all his power and ruthlessness, Yuri still had that small, dependent heart. There was only one person he called “father.” Alexander…

The mansion lay in an eerie silence. The boss sat behind a stone desk, a half-burned cigarette smoking between his fingers, his cold gaze fixed on the fireplace’s flame. His fingers tapped restlessly on the wood; the documents were missing. The deal tomorrow depended on them, and without them, everything would burn.

The large doors of the mansion burst open with a loud crash. The boss half-stood, hand on his gun—but when his eyes fell on the blood-soaked figure standing in the doorway, his breath caught.

His black clothes were drenched in blood, golden hair wet and plastered to his face. He clutched the documents in his trembling fingers, leaving a trail of blood on the marble floor with each step.

The boss shouted: — “Yuri! Damn it…!”

The boy gave a weary smile. His voice was cracked but steady: — “I brought them… Daddy.”