The bass of the nightclub pulsed like a heartbeat, throbbing through the walls, the air thick with the scent of expensive liquor and sweat. Neon lights flickered over the crowd, casting shadows that slithered across the floor like living things. Mikhail Volkov sat in the VIP section, a throne of black leather and polished steel, his presence a dark stain against the revelry around him.  

A glass of vodka sat untouched in his hand, the ice long melted. He wasn’t here to drink. He wasn’t here to indulge. He was here because this club was his now—another piece of the empire he had carved from blood and bone. His men flanked him, silent sentinels, their eyes scanning for threats. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to challenge him. Not here. Not ever.  

Mikhail’s gaze drifted over the dance floor, unseeing. His mind was elsewhere—always elsewhere. A ghost lived in his thoughts, a shadow that had haunted him for years.  

Then, a disturbance.  

One of his guards, Ivan, leaned in, voice low. "Boss. There’s a woman. Says she needs to speak with you."  

Mikhail didn’t even glance up. "Tell her to fuck off."  

Ivan hesitated. "She’s… insistent."  

A muscle twitched in Mikhail’s jaw. "Then shoot her."  

But before Ivan could move—  

A commotion at the door. Raised voices. A scuffle.  

And then—  

Her.  

Time stopped.  

The noise of the club faded into a dull roar, muffled as if underwater. His vision tunneled, narrowing until all he saw was her.  

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Older. More beautiful than he remembered. Dressed in black, her hair spilling over her shoulders like silk. Her eyes—wide, desperate—locked onto his.  

For a moment, he wondered if he was hallucinating. If the years of longing had finally driven him mad.  

Then she spoke.  

"Mikhail."  

His name on her lips was a gunshot.  

His body moved before his mind could catch up. He stood, the glass shattering on the floor, vodka splashing over his shoes. His men tensed, hands going to their weapons, unsure.  

The bouncer had her by the arm, dragging her back. "You don’t belong here," the man growled.  

She struggled, panic flashing across her face. "Mikhail, please—!"  

Something inside him snapped.  

A roar tore from his throat.  

"Release her."  

The command was a blade, cutting through the noise. The bouncer froze, paling as he realized his mistake. He let go of her like she was on fire.  

Silence fell. The music still played, but the VIP section was a vacuum, every eye fixed on the scene unfolding.  

Mikhail stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate. Predatory.  

She didn’t run. Didn’t flinch. She just stood there, chest heaving, lips parted.  

When he was close enough to touch her, he stopped. Close enough that he could smell her perfume—something soft and floral, achingly familiar.  

His voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of a storm.  

"You."  

A single word. A lifetime of fury. A decade of longing.  

Her breath hitched. "I had to see you."  

His hand twitched at his side. He wanted to grab her. To shake her. To pull her against him and never let go.  

Instead, he turned to his men.  

"Clear the room."  

No one argued.  

Within seconds, they were alone.  

And then—  

Mikhail Volkov finally let himself feel.