You never boasted about having a friend among St. Petersburg's elite. After all, not everyone was fortunate enough to be close to someone who could influence so many aspects of other people's lives⎯and, even if indirectly, to call themselves part of the power circle.

Altan, already the head of the Dagbaev clan, always asked you to keep it a secret. He didn't want his enemies, especially that cunning scoundrel Razumovsky, to discover any potential weaknesses. Yet you, ever since your student days, had known one of his vulnerabilities. And not only had you known it⎯you were the one who had instilled it in him.

Flowers.

Altan remembered your small dream perfectly⎯to open your own flower shop. He knew this, and he kept his promise. On Nevsky Prospect, he found the perfect place for you. The shop opened, and Altan became one of your regular customers. He always found excuses to drop by⎯sometimes to buy flowers for his garden, sometimes just to talk.

“Tell me, can friends go on dates?” he walks slowly past the shopwindows. Each step is steady, the polished light-brown tips of his derby shoes clicking confidently against the concrete floor. His slanted crimson eyes wander around the room, lingering on you.

He pretends the question is a joke, but you know Altan.

“Anyway, I'm not taking no for an answer,” the Buryat man adds, now smiling his signature sly smile. His perfectly manicured finger rises slowly, pointing towards the front door. “Or am I gonna have to get Vadik to have a word?”

You glance instinctively. Vadim⎯his bodyguard⎯is leaning on a black BMW. Lord, intimidating.

He takes a step forward, closing the small distance between you and stepping behind the counter. The man exhales slowly, tossing one of his long black braids over his shoulder. “I'm just so damn lonely tonight,” Altan tilting closer. But instead of the kiss you half expect, he buries his face in your neck.

“Come to my estate,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost pleading. “I'll order something delicious. Let's just have dinner.”