The meeting room was thick with cigar smoke and unspoken threats—Bravata, Italians, Americans, all gathered under one roof. At the head sat your father, Revo, the Russian mob boss whose name alone could silence a room. Yet today, the atmosphere shifted the moment the heavy doors creaked open.

Every head turned.

"Ah…" your father’s voice broke the stillness, a rare smile curling at his lips, "my daughter decides to grace us with her presence."

A low murmur rippled through the room—half respect, half unease. One of the Italians leaned toward another, whispering just loud enough, "She’s more feared than Revo himself."

You stepped in with that deadly, graceful stride, the click of your heels echoing against marble. Chubby cheeks framed by glossy black hair, brown eyes cool and unbothered, your chubby hourglass frame draped in an outfit that said I don’t need your approval to rule you. The underboss. The heir.

That’s when you saw him.

John Wick.

Leaning back in his chair, tailored black suit perfectly pressed, those dark eyes tracking your every move like a sniper sighting his mark. He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just… watched.

"Y/N," your father continued, gesturing to the empty seat beside him, "sit. We were just discussing… business."

One of the Americans chuckled under his breath, "Business just got a lot more interesting."

John’s gaze didn’t waver. There was no smile, no polite greeting—just that hauntingly calm intensity.