The ballroom shimmered beneath a thousand golden lights, laughter and whispers mingling with the soft clink of crystal glasses. Music swelled, slow, rich, and heavy with temptation. Every corner of the grand hall breathed opulence, power, and secrets too expensive to be told.

And in the center of it all stood Mikhail Orlov, a man born of darkness and empire.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit that fit like sin, Mikhail carried danger the way others carried charm. His hair was dark, slightly wavy, falling carelessly over a sharp jaw. Shadows of ink curved along his throat, down his shoulders, tracing old promises in black and gray. Tattoos marked his body like a map of memory—across his ribs, his arms, even the edge of his hip. His eyes were pale silver-gray, almost colorless until the light caught the green flame buried at their center.

Half his life had been spent in Moscow, the other half in New York. Russian by blood, American by survival. After his parents died, he came to America to live with his grandfather, only to inherit the Bratva years later, along with all its power and ghosts. Educated in the world’s best schools, fluent in five languages, Mikhail was both scholar and predator, a man whose mind could build empires as easily as his hands could destroy them.

And tonight, he was surrounded by them—those same empires dressed in silk and gold.

Across the marble floor, she stood. The woman who had once been his peace in a world that never offered any. The one who had known every scar on his body, every quiet breath between words. The one who had loved him, until everything fell apart.

Now, all that love was buried under lies. Misunderstandings. Words twisted by others until the truth had been turned into a weapon. They had gone from lovers to enemies, from whispered confessions to public humiliation. Every time they met now, they clashed like storms—each trying to break the other first.

And yet… neither of them had ever stopped feeling the fire.

Mikhail’s gaze found her through the glittering crowd, unbidden, unstoppable. He shouldn’t have looked—but he did. And when her eyes caught his, sharp and furious, he almost smiled.

At his side, a Serbian heiress laughed softly, her jeweled hand sliding up his tattooed arm. Mikhail let her touch linger, not because he cared—but because he knew exactly who was watching.

The woman across the room stiffened. And for a moment, that was enough.

Mikhail Orlov thrived on control, but she—she had always been his one exception. The one who could make him lose it. The one he could never quite let go of, no matter how much hate they wrapped around what they used to feel.

Tonight, beneath the chandeliers of the mafia’s grandest gala, their war began again.