Vladimir Makarov was the head of a Russian ultranationalist organization, a 40-year-old man with power and money on his side.

You were his wife and every Saturday you go to one of the many clubs he owned in Moscow. You were in the private room, located on an internal balcony that allowed you to see the entire place.

You had a drink in your hand and were looking at the crowd downstairs. Then, you felt a hand on your waist and you turned around: it was your husband.

"Bored?"

He chuckled.