Mikhail’s POV

The news came at dawn.

A quiet knock. A nervous messenger. The kind of silence that dripped with fear.

Mikhail sat at the head of the table, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the ice clinking softly as he swirled it. His fingers tapped against the crystal rim, slow and deliberate.

The man standing before him—one of his few remaining commanders—shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“Say it again,” Mikhail said, voice dangerously calm.

The commander swallowed hard. “Volkov—he… he wiped them out.”

A slow blink. “Which ones?”

The commander hesitated. “All of them.”

CRACK.

The sound of breaking glass echoed through the dimly lit room. Mikhail’s grip had tightened so hard around the whiskey glass that it shattered in his hand, shards embedding into his palm.

Blood dripped onto the table, mingling with the spilled liquor.

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Deadly.

Mikhail exhaled slowly, watching the crimson spread across his skin, feeling the sharp sting of glass.

Damien Volkov had slaughtered his men. His best men. His inner circle.

Gone. Just like that.

A slow, seething rage began to crawl up his spine.

Damien had gone too far.

Mikhail’s lips curled, teeth bared in something between a snarl and a grin.

“Volkov thinks he’s untouchable,” he murmured, voice dark with amusement. “That he can take and take, and I’ll just sit back and watch.”

The commander lowered his head, not daring to interrupt.

Mikhail leaned back, pressing his bleeding palm against his suit. The blood smeared, a stark contrast against the white fabric.

Slowly, he stood.

“Gather the men. The best of them.”

The commander nodded, already reaching for his phone.

But Mikhail wasn’t finished.

His dark gaze flickered with something twisted, something far beyond simple revenge.

“Killing his men isn’t enough,” he murmured. “No… I want him to suffer.”

He tilted his head, an idea forming, growing, twisting into something crueler.

Volkov didn’t just have power. He had weakness.

And one of those weaknesses?

His little lover.

Mikhail’s grin stretched wider, blood still dripping from his hand.

“Find Luca Ivanov,” he ordered, voice smooth, cold as death. “And make sure he bleeds.”

****** Luca Ivanov’s POV

The restaurant buzzed with quiet conversations, the scent of grilled steak and fresh bread filling the air. Luca twirled his fork, watching his sister cut into her food with the same focus she used when dismantling criminals.

"You know," he drawled, smirking, "you eat like you're planning a murder."

Valarie didn’t even glance up. "And you eat like you have zero table manners."

Luca gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "How dare you? I am a gentleman."

She rolled her eyes but smirked. "Sure you are, brat."

Their sibling lunches were rare—small pockets of peace where they could pretend, just for a little while, that they weren’t tangled in a world of blood and power plays.

But peace never lasted.

The first gunshot shattered the moment.

Luca’s body reacted before his mind caught up, instincts honed by years in Damien’s world. He grabbed Valarie, shoving her down as bullets tore through the restaurant.

Screams erupted. Patrons ducked under tables. Glass shattered as windows exploded. Their bodyguards had already moved, drawing weapons, engaging the unseen threat outside.

Luca’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. An ambush.

Valarie was already moving, pulling her gun from her thigh holster, eyes sharp and deadly.

Luca gritted his teeth. "Mikhail’s men?"

"Obviously." Her tone was all business. Calm. Focused. Deadly.

Another explosion of gunfire. One of their guards fell, blood splattering across the white tablecloths.

Then—movement.

A group of men pushed into the restaurant, weapons raised, eyes locked directly on them.

Luca and Valarie stood back to back.

The leader stepped forward, smirking. "Well, well. The Ivanovs. And here we thought this would be harder."

Luca’s hands clenched into fists. "You’re really stupid if you think this is easy."

The man chuckled. "Oh, we know you're fighters." He tilted his head. "But we also know you won’t risk civilians. And that gives us the upper hand."

Valarie’s jaw tightened. They were right. The restaurant was full of innocent people. They couldn't fight recklessly.

The smirking bastard’s phone rang. He answered, eyes never leaving them.

"Yes, sir. We have them."

Luca’s stomach twisted. He knew exactly who was on the other end of that call.

Mikhail.

And he was mocking them.

But Valarie never back down .

**** Valarie Ivanov’s POV

Pain exploded in her jaw.

The force of the punch snapped her head to the side, the metallic taste of blood spreading across her tongue. Valarie staggered but didn’t fall. She never fell.

Luca shouted her name, struggling against the men restraining him. But Valarie didn’t get a chance to reassure him.

Another hit came—a cruel, bone-shaking strike to her ribs.

She gasped, barely suppressing a groan. The bastard grinned, enjoying it.

"You think you're tough, huh?" he sneered, gripping her chin roughly. "A woman like you should know her place—"

A gunshot rang out.

Valarie barely registered the warm spray of blood before the man holding her collapsed, a clean bullet hole between his eyes.

The room shifted.

In an instant, everything changed.

More shots followed—silent, precise. Death. Execution.

Mikhail’s men fell like dominos, bodies dropping one after another in eerie, perfect silence.

Luca wrenched free, his eyes wide as he turned to Valarie. "What the hell—"

A shadow moved.

A man stepped forward, his gun still smoking, eyes calm but burning.

Sebastian Vasiliev.

Valarie’s breath hitched—not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.

He was dressed in a sleek black suit, unfazed by the bodies around him, as if this level of violence was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Then, those steel grey eyes landed on her.

"You're bleeding," he noted, voice low and rich.

Valarie wiped her split lip, expression defiant despite the sharp sting. "I'll live."

Sebastian’s gaze flicked over her face, her bruised jaw, her disheveled state. Something dark and unreadable flickered in his expression.

Then, he turned to the remaining men—the ones still stupidly alive.

"Who gave you permission," he murmured, "to touch her?"

The last of Mikhail’s men trembled. One opened his mouth to speak—beg, maybe.

Sebastian shot him in the head.

Silence.

Luca exhaled shakily, stepping beside Valarie. "...Remind me to never piss him off."

Sebastian turned back to Valarie, his gaze raking over her one last time—assessing. Satisfied she was in one piece.

Then, almost casually, he smirked.

"You're welcome, Officer Ivanov."