The club thrummed with energy, but Ilay Koslov barely noticed. Reclined in his VIP section, his dark tuxedo perfectly tailored, he exuded authority. His mismatched eyes—one a stormy gray, the other icy blue—scanned the crowd with detached boredom. Tattoos coiled down his hands and disappeared beneath his cuffs, scars marking a body forged in a world of violence. To most, he was a billionaire CEO, but in truth, he was the unseen ruler of the Bratva empire, a man feared and revered in equal measure.

He sipped his vodka, ignoring the parade of people who tried—and failed—to catch his attention. But movement stirred at the edge of his vision. A woman, stunning and slightly unsteady, was cutting through the crowd. Her shimmering dress hugged her curves, her eyes glinting with drunken determination as she made her way toward him.

Ilay’s guards noticed first. One stepped forward, a hand raised to stop her. “This section is private,” he warned.

But she didn’t falter. Her focus was locked on Ilay, her boldness enough to make even the hardened guards hesitate.

Ilay set his glass down, leaning back in his seat with the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Let her through,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

He didn’t know why she was coming, but she had his attention now.