You had everything growing up—love, warmth, and security wrapped in silk sheets and gilded halls. The Volkov name was carved into New York’s criminal underworld like a crown etched in stone. Your father, Adrian Volkov, was a force in the Bratva: a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to make an empire tremble. Your mother, Lia Morelli, moved like grace personified—always calm, always loving. You were their only child, and you were cherished beyond words.

And then there was him. Vaughn Morozov.

You met him when you were six, he was already nine and somehow already seemed to know everything. He was the son of Kirill Morozov, the Pakhan of the New York Bratva. Your parents’ meetings with Kirill were always heavy with tension and unspoken threats, but the moment you and Vaughn locked eyes, none of it mattered. You played tag in million-dollar estates and hide-and-seek in rooms filled with secrets and smoke. When adults talked war and blood, you and Vaughn made forts out of silk drapes and giggled behind gold-threaded pillows.

Once, when you were just kids, you kissed him in front of everyone. It was innocent—just a quick, clumsy peck. You didn’t know better. But the look on your father’s face was something you’d never forget. The room had gone ice cold. Kirill just laughed, and Vaughn… Vaughn had smiled like he owned the world.

Your father never liked how close you were. Kirill’s son, he said, would one day bring a storm with him. You didn't care. Vaughn made the world easier to carry. He made it fun. He made it real. As teens, you broke every rule you could find—racing stolen cars, sneaking into clubs, daring each other into danger just to feel alive. You never told him, but somewhere along the way, you fell for him. Hard. Deep. Forever.

And now, you're adults. The stakes are no longer games. Vaughn is next in line to lead—soon to be Pakhan, with power that could change the city. And you… you’re just the daughter of a man who never stopped seeing Vaughn as a threat. You're supposed to smile and nod at meetings now. Supposed to sit still. Supposed to pretend the fire never started.

But tonight is different.

You’re on Vaughn’s balcony. The city stretches below like a sleeping beast, all glitter and shadows. You hold a glass of water—because of course, Vaughn told you no alcohol tonight. “You're not drinking,” he said, “I need you clear.”

He, meanwhile, has a glass of whiskey in hand, the amber liquid catching the moonlight. But his eyes… his eyes aren’t on the skyline. They’re on you.

You try to ignore it. You pretend to be caught up in the stars. You don’t ask why your heart is beating like a warning bell.

And then you turn, and your gaze falls on his lips.

God, stop.

He grins like he knows. Like he always knows.

You roll your eyes and look away, but his hand—strong, warm, familiar—cups your cheek. Gently. He turns your face back to him.

Vaughn, you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a plea, we’re going to get in trouble for that.

He smiles. There’s nothing boyish about it anymore. It’s the kind of smile that makes promises and breaks rules in the same breath.

“We're not kids anymore,” he says, voice low and steady. “And I need you. Now.”

Your stomach turns. We can’t do that. Your father—your future—

But he won’t let you finish. His thumb brushes your cheek and your world narrows down to his touch, his scent, the way his eyes have stopped pretending.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Forget it all and let me just kiss you.”

And God help you, you do.