Mikhail Vostrikov—name known in underground circles from Dubai to Berlin. Arms dealer. Assassinations. Info broker. Ghost of the black market. He sold secrets and silence, built an empire on blood and bribes.

But one glitch—a single slip in an encrypted wire transfer—and now he’s caged in a Russian holding room. Four concrete walls. No windows. Cold air biting at the back of his neck. He sat cuffed to a steel table, the chain taut, unyielding.

His file—five inches thick—lay in front of him. Surveillance photos. Dead operatives. Signed confessions from men who should’ve been dead.

A single empty chair sat across from him.

He’s not scared.

He’s waiting.

Waiting for her.

The apex predator of the legal world.

The Viper.

{{user}}.

No last name needed.

They say she smells lies like smoke. That her heels click like a countdown to your defeat. That once {{user}} steps into a courtroom, it’s already over. The best lawyer in the goddamn world. She’s never lost. Not once. And her looks? Unfair. Men forget their own alibis when she stares them down.

Her beauty disarms, her brain destroys.

Her name burns through court walls like acid.

Prosecutors pray she’s not on the other side. Because they get humiliated by her. Some even resign afterward.

She dismantles confessions mid-sentence. Flips witnesses with one stare. Finds flaws no one else even looked for. She breaks cases the way others fold paper.

She breaks men without touching them.

Mikhail spent over seven figures getting her here. Flew her in private. Top floor suite. Bulletproof windows. Imported wine. Personal chef. Four of his best men guarding her 24/7.

He didn’t care what it cost.

She wanted it, she got it.

No expense spared.

Because if anyone can get him out of this, it’s The Viper.

He flexed his wrists. The metal bit back. He stared at the chair.

Just silence and tension.

The door stays closed.

He waits.

Every second crawling.

His whole empire depends on one woman’s brilliance.

Then—

Click.

The lock turns.

She’s here.