Present

Ivan's POV

My father's office has never felt warm, not when I first stepped into it as his heir, not the first time he summoned me here as a boy, and certainly not now, when I stand across from Viktor Dragunov as Pakhan.

The room is silent except for the slow ticking of the antique clock mounted on the wall behind him. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlook Moscow's frozen skyline, the city stretching beneath us in cold lights and steel towers. From this height, the world looks smaller and quieter like everything eventually becomes when enough power presses down on it.

Viktor's eyes remain fixed on me, unblinking and calculating.

"How are you, son?"

I don't answer. I never do. He already expects that reaction, and as usual, he continues without waiting.

"An old friend's daughter has been kidnapped in New York," he says calmly, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Italian syndicate did it. Sloppy execution, careless work, and the kind of mistake that only happens when people forget who truly controls this world."

My expression doesn't change.

"Your friend," I reply evenly, "is none of my business."

I turn to leave, already done with the conversation.

"Arjun has already left for New York."

My steps stop.

Slowly, I turn back toward him.

Viktor smiles, though there is nothing warm in it. It is the smile of a man who enjoys watching pieces fall into place on a board only he understands. For a brief moment, I imagine pulling the gun from my jacket and emptying the magazine into his skull.

But I don't.

Because no matter how much I despise him, my mother chose him once. And I am the result of that choice.

That alone is enough restraint.

"He was involved with the same girl," Viktor continues, watching me carefully. "From what my sources suggest."

There is something almost resembling sympathy in his eyes, though I know better than to believe it.

"You shouldn't let your brother go through something like you did."

I don't wait to hear the rest. I turn and walk out of the room. Behind me, Mikhail and Sergei fall into step without a word. Inside the elevator, I pull out my phone and dial a number from memory. Aarav answers within seconds.

"I want you in New York," I say before he can speak. "Keep Arjun there, by force or by persuasion. I don't care. Just keep him there until I reach."

"What? Your brother? Do you think I can even touch that psyc—"

I end the call.

By the time the elevator reaches the ground floor, the car is already waiting outside. Our men open the doors and we slide into the back seat without a word. The convoy moves toward our northern compound near the Russian–Finnish border, hidden deep inside a stretch of forest where no civilian road leads. No one comes here unless they belong to me.

And if someone does appear who shouldn't...

They rarely leave.

The convoy stops near the main entrance. Our men step out first, scanning the perimeter before opening the doors for us.

But we don't enter through the main level.

We go down.

Basement level two.

The air changes the moment the doors open. The smell hits first, metallic, thick, unmistakable. Blood.

Two men hang from chains in the center of the room. Naked. Their bodies are covered in cuts and bruises, blood drying in dark lines along their ribs and thighs.

Their eyes find me immediately. One of them tries to straighten despite the pain.

"Pakhan," he rasps hoarsely. "Young boss would have killed us if we hadn't let him go."

Young boss.

Arjun.

I signal Sergei.

The moment the chains are unlocked, both men collapse to their knees.

"Forgive us, Pakhan," the other man pleads. "If we had informed you earlier, young boss would have—"

I don't let him finish.

The gun feels natural in my hand. Two shots echo in the concrete room. When the sound fades, both bodies lie still on the floor.

I hand the weapon back to Mikhail.

"Prepare the jet," I say. "Contact our New York men and tell them I want the girl located before we land. Sergei, send me the full file on her, every single detail."

They nod.

I leave the room without looking back.

I head toward the first floor and take a cold shower, letting the water run over my skin until the heat of the day fades. It washes away the smell of blood and smoke, but it clears nothing from my mind. One face keeps appearing everywhere. I close my eyes. When I finally step out, the silence feels heavier than before. On the jet, I open the file Sergei sent. Her name, background, and life history appear on the screen, limited exposure to the public world, private education, and a carefully controlled upbringing. There is no obvious reason for the Italian interest except leverage.

Then I notice the note attached at the bottom.

Linked to Arjun Malhotra. MY BROTHER.

I close the laptop slowly and lean back in the seat. Outside the window, the clouds drift like smoke beneath the wings of the jet as we cut through the dark sky. Hours later, New York greets us with cold wind and endless neon light. The city looks restless even at night, alive in a way Moscow rarely is. The villa where Arjun is staying is heavily guarded, but that means little. If he wanted to leave, the guards can't stop him.

The moment we step inside, the first thing I see is Aarav tied to a sofa. "You bastard," he growls. "Untie me or your brother will kill you for torturing his handsome best friend." "Don't fuck with me, Aarav," Arjun says coldly. Aarav opens his mouth again to continue the insult, but the words die when he finally notices me standing there. His expression shifts immediately from anger to relief the second he sees me. I signal Mikhail to untie Aarav. 

Mikhail moves forward and unties him while Aarav rubs his cheek, wincing. "Ivan, just because you're my best friend, I'm forgiving your brother for ruining my face." His attempt at humor fades when movement to my left catches my attention. Arjun steps forward slowly, his posture calm despite the tension in the room. Aarav immediately shifts behind Mikhail as if he suddenly remembers his survival instincts. "Whatever you want to say," he mutters nervously, "say it from there."

I take a step toward Arjun and watch him lower his head slightly. My hand moves before thought does. The sound of the slap echoes through the villa, sharp enough to silence everyone in the room. Arjun doesn't react. No one breathes, and no one dares to interrupt the moment.

I grip his jaw and force him to look at me. "Speak." His eyes remain steady and calm, not guilty, but determined in a way he rarely shows. He explains about the girl and why he left without informing anyone. When he finishes, I hold his gaze for a moment before answering. "If you act without my permission again, you are going back to India."

He nods once. "Sorry."

Aarav lets out a quiet snort, earning a murderous glance from Arjun that promises consequences later. I ignore both of them and turn toward the others in the room. "Mikhail. Sergei. Take the men and bring her here. Make sure she is safe." Arjun steps forward immediately. "I'm coming."

My stare alone is enough to stop him. He lowers his head again before speaking quietly. "I just want to save her." Aarav laughs under his breath. "But who will save her from you? How did that girl even fall for a mad person like you?" Arjun's expression darkens, but I don't respond.

Minutes later, Arjun leaves with Mikhail and Sergei. Four black cars disappear into the New York night, their engines fading into the distance until the villa becomes silent again. Aarav stands beside me with his arms crossed, watching the empty driveway. "You're not letting him handle this alone, are you?" he asks carefully. I don't answer immediately. Instead, I reach for my coat.

"I hate that psychopath," Aarav continues after a moment, "but he's your brother. And Roman DeLuca isn't some street thug. He's a syndicate heir." I nod once. "I'm aware."

We drive twenty minutes north through the quieter part of the city. Roman's mansion eventually appears behind tall iron gates. Aarav parks the car a distance away and immediately opens his laptop. His fingers move across the keyboard while he connects to the surrounding surveillance network.

"I know you don't care if you die since you rejected my offer to bring our men," he mutters without looking up. "But I very much do. I have a promising future and questionable morals to maintain, with girls waiting for me to satisfy them. So if you get shot, at least signal me so I can run." I ignore him and pull the mask over my face as I step out of the car, tightening my gloves while loading the suppressed pistols into my hands.

Roman's mansion stands behind iron gates like a monument to arrogance. Floodlights stretch across the gardens, illuminating marble statues and trimmed hedges as if the entire place exists to display wealth rather than protect it. Security cameras rotate slowly along the outer walls, their lenses sweeping across empty driveways and polished stone paths. The guards near the gate look bored instead of alert, leaning casually against their posts as if nothing in the world could possibly threaten this place. Roman DeLuca clearly believes his name alone is enough to keep danger away.

He is wrong.

Cold night air brushes against my neck as I move toward the outer wall. The first guard notices me too late, his head turning only when the sound of my footsteps reaches him. The shot is quiet, barely louder than a whisper. His body collapses before he can make a sound. The second guard reaches for his radio, but the bullet catches him in the throat before the message can leave his mouth. I drag both bodies into the shadows of the hedge and continue forward without slowing down.

Inside, the mansion is quieter than expected. Music hums faintly somewhere deeper inside the building, accompanied by distant laughter drifting through the hallways. The air smells of expensive liquor and smoke, the kind that fills rooms where people celebrate without thinking about consequences. Roman DeLuca is clearly enjoying himself tonight. Probably celebrating the kidnapping.

Two men sit in the living room with glasses in their hands, laughing about something neither of them will finish saying. They barely have time to look up before the shots land. The suppressed gunfire echoes softly against the marble floor as their bodies drop to the ground. I step over them and continue down the hallway without looking back. Their conversation dies with them.

The corridor stretches ahead under soft yellow lighting, paintings lining the walls like decorations in a museum meant to impress guests. None of it matters. At the end of the hall, a large door stands slightly open, light spilling out from inside the room. Roman's bedroom.

I push the door open.

Roman DeLuca wakes instantly, his hand already reaching for the gun beneath the pillow. He moves faster than the guards outside, but not fast enough. Two women beside him scramble away in panic, clutching blankets around themselves as they run toward the door. Roman's eyes lock onto me, and recognition spreads slowly across his face.

"You... Dragunov."

He fires.

The bullet grazes my arm before striking the wall behind me. Pain flashes briefly through the muscle, sharp but meaningless. I close the distance in three steps before he can fire again, knocking the gun from his hand as it clatters across the floor. My knife presses into his thigh and Roman screams, the sound tearing through the room.

I lean closer so he can see my eyes through the mask.

"You involved my brother."

Sweat forms instantly along his forehead as he struggles against the pain. "It was business," he says through clenched teeth. "Leverage." The blade presses deeper into his leg as blood begins to spread across the sheets beneath him. I watch his expression carefully, waiting for the fear to settle in.

"I don't tolerate mistakes."

"If you kill me," he gasps, "you will start a war."

A faint smile forms behind the mask.

"War doesn't scare me. Bring every mafia in the world to your side if you want, you still won't be able to threaten me, because a man who has nothing to lose is the most dangerous one."

The knife sinks deeper into his thigh and Roman screams again, the sound breaking into desperate breaths. A moment later the door behind me opens as two of my men step into the room. I pull the blade free and step back, watching Roman struggle to remain conscious.

"Keep him alive," I say calmly.

Roman stares at me in disbelief, blood soaking into the bed beneath him. "You're not going to finish it?" he asks weakly.

I turn toward the door without looking back.

"No," I reply. "You'll live long enough to understand what you started. And when that time comes, someone else will be happy to finish it." I leave him bleeding but breathing and walk out of the room without looking back. Outside, the night air feels colder, carrying the distant noise of the city beyond the estate walls. Aarav looks up from his laptop the moment I step into the car. "CCTV wiped," he says casually. "You're welcome." I toss the guns into the backseat and shut the door.

He picks one up and checks the chamber before glancing at me. "Four shots?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "You're getting sentimental." I don't respond. The car pulls away from the estate and merges into the quiet streets of New York. Neon lights stretch across the wet asphalt as the city opens before us, restless and sleepless even at this hour.

I stare out the window, letting the passing lights blur together as the car moves through the restless streets of New York. Neon reflections stretch across the wet asphalt while the city continues its endless motion beneath the night sky. For a moment my mind drifts, replaying the events of the evening without interest. Then something shifts in the corner of my vision. A figure walks beneath a streetlight on the opposite side of the road.

Midnight light catches the edge of her hair as she moves forward without hesitation. Blue denim. Long sleeves. No jewelry except a thin pendant resting against her collarbone. A glove hangs loosely in one hand as she walks alone, calm and completely unaware of the world around her. The image settles in my mind with unsettling clarity.

For a brief second, my heart stutters.

No. It doesn't.

It hasn't done that in years.

"Aarav," I say quietly. "Stop the car. Now."

He brakes hard, the tires scraping against the wet road as the car jerks to a halt. Before the vehicle fully stops, I'm already pushing the door open and stepping out into the cold air. Wind brushes across my face as I reach the corner where I saw her moments ago. My eyes scan the sidewalk, the empty crossing, and the narrow alley beside the building.

Nothing.

The street stands silent except for the distant hum of traffic.

A hallucination. Again.

Six years ago she died. I built an empire on that truth, burying everything else beneath blood and power. Yet my pulse quickens despite the logic screaming inside my head. Slowly, my gaze lifts toward the streetlight above the intersection.

A CCTV camera sits fixed on the corner.

"Aarav."

He walks toward me quickly. "What happened?"

"I want that footage."

"Now."

Within minutes we're back inside the car, his laptop open between us as the video rewinds frame by frame. The street appears exactly as it did before, empty beneath the flickering light. Then a figure enters the frame, walking across the road with steady steps.

My breathing stops.

Her face remains hidden at first as she moves beneath the light, the camera catching only the outline of her figure. Then she steps forward and turns slightly toward the lens. The screen freezes the moment the light reveals her face.

Time fractures.

The same eyes.
The same quiet expression.
The same girl I buried six years ago.

"Zhiva..."

The word escapes before I can stop it. I thought I buried that name six years ago.

She looks older now. Calmer. Nothing like the girl I once knew. But there is no mistake in the face staring back from the screen.

It is her.

Aarav inhales sharply beside me. "She..."

"She wasn't dead," I say quietly.

My voice doesn't shake, but something tightens in my chest like a chain being pulled loose after years of rust. For six years I believed she chose death because of me. For six years I killed without hesitation. For six years I felt nothing except guilt and anger.

Now my pulse is unsteady. My hand tightens against the edge of the laptop.

"Find her," I tell Aarav.

He nods immediately, fingers already moving across the keyboard as he begins searching through nearby cameras. New York suddenly feels smaller than it did minutes ago. The streets, the lights, the endless buildings all seem closer now.

And for the first time in years, I don't feel like its ruler.

I feel hunted by a ghost I buried myself. 

I stare at her face on the screen for a long moment.

"I won't let you disappear again," I whisper. "Not even for a second."