AUTHOR'S POV:-
Moscow, Russia
Nikolai Vetrovski
The room smelled of rusted metal, blood, and something older—fear.
Nikolai Vetrovski leaned back in the heavy leather chair, his expression carved from stone. His gray eyes watched the man tied to the chair before him. The man's breathing was erratic, shallow. Blood dripped steadily from a split above his brow, soaking into the floor.
"You knew the rules," Nikolai said, voice quiet but razor-sharp. "You broke them anyway."
"I—I didn't mean to—" the man gasped.
Nikolai's fingers tapped once against the armrest. "Intent means nothing to me."
He rose slowly, adjusting the cuff of his black shirt with surgical precision. The silence stretched, thick with dread. Nikolai didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His presence alone was enough to make most men confess their sins before he asked.
His right-hand man, Adrik Mikhailov, stood just behind him, arms folded. He was the only person Nikolai allowed close..
"What do you want to do with him?" Adrik asked casually, though his fingers rested on the grip of his gun.
"Make it quick," Nikolai said without emotion. "Then dump him by the docks. Let the others find him."
A quiet breath. One shot. Silence.
As they walked out of the warehouse into the freezing Moscow night, the snow began to fall softly—white flakes drifting through the sharp air. Nikolai didn't speak. He never did after a job. The only sound was the click of his boots on concrete and the hum of the black car waiting for them.
Inside the vehicle, Adrik glanced over. "That's the fourth rat this month. Someone's getting bold."
Nikolai stared out the window, jaw tight. "Let them."
"You planning to bait them?"
"No," he said. "I'm planning to bury them."
~~
Back at the Vetrovski estate, security tightened like a noose—armed guards, steel gates, and motion sensors lining the walls. Inside, though, warmth lingered. A fireplace burned low in the sitting room, and the scent of chamomile tea drifted through the hall.
At the doorway, Elena Vetrovskaia stood waiting—dark-haired, elegant, with eyes that saw everything. She wrapped her son in a brief, firm hug, brushing snow from his shoulders.
"You've been out late again," she said. "Your hands are cold."
"They're always cold," Nikolai replied.
Her touch softened. "Don't forget you're human, Kolya."
His expression didn't shift. "I forget nothing."
Elena watched him walk away, knowing better than anyone that there were parts of her son she'd never reach again—not since that night, years ago. They had hurt him, tried to break him. But instead, he became something colder.
Not broken. Just... harder.
Now, he ruled the criminal underworld without needing a throne.
ooooo
Naples, Italy
Ava Moretti
The morning sun painted golden patterns across the marble floors of the Moretti estate, but Ava Moretti paid no attention to it. She sat behind a massive desk, files open before her, hazel eyes scanning names, routes, threats.
There was movement outside her office—a bodyguard switching posts, a servant passing by—but none of it disturbed her. She had mastered silence, carved it into her soul, and wore it like armor.
"Shipment from Genoa was delayed again," said a deep voice.
She didn't look up. "Why?"
"Customs sweep. Nothing hit, but the timing's too perfect," replied Leo Santoro, her right hand, her oldest friend, the one person she trusted with the things she never said aloud.
"They're testing us."
Leo nodded, arms crossed. "Could be the Ziani crew. Or worse—someone on our side feeding them info."
Ava leaned back slowly in her chair, the faintest crease forming between her brows. "Find out. Quietly."
"Always," Leo said, then added, "You haven't slept."
"Sleep's not a priority."
"It is if you plan to outlive the bastards chasing your crown."
She glanced at him. "I don't plan to outlive them. I plan to erase them."
Leo didn't argue. He never did when she got like this.
To the world, Ava was the Queen —cold, brilliant, and untouchable. But to Leo, she was still the girl who trained beside him in the courtyard at eighteen, knives in hand, fire in her eyes. The one who never let pain slow her down. The one who once bled in silence just to prove a point.
And yet, behind all that strength, Leo knew something deeper still lived in her—something that hurt, something that feared loving too much in a world where love was a weapon.
Her father, Marco Moretti, ruled from the old war rooms of the estate, but Ava? She ruled the streets.
And not with noise.
With fear.
~~
The two of them hadn't met yet. Not really. Just old names passed through old alliances.
But the world was changing. Shadows were shifting. And soon, when the war began, the uncrowned king and the queen of silence would stand on the same battlefield.
And the fire they'd buried for years would start to burn again.
~~
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