Page 3

Then, a different sensation crawls up my spine—the unmistakable prickle of being watched. My mother's voice whispers in my memory:"Trust that feeling, Nastya. Your body knows danger before your mind can name it."

Instinctively, I scan the street, my gaze catching on a figure leaning against a building across the boulevard. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a stillness that speaks of lethal capability rather than casual observation. Our eyes meet briefly—his silver-gray, unnervingly intense—before he melts into the shadows.

My heart pounds against my ribs, not entirely from fear. There's something magnetic about him, something that ignites a response I've never felt before. My mother's warning echoes again:"Dangerous men are the most alluring, Nastya. Remember, attraction can be the deadliest trap of all."

In Moscow, I would retreat immediately, call security, alert my father.

In Paris, I feel a different response—a curl of heat, a flicker of something dangerous and thrilling that spreads through my veins faster than champagne. My skin tingles where his gaze touched me, and despite the warm night, goosebumps rise along my arms.

I knowwith bone-deep certainty that comes from a lifetime of reading people and assessing their deepest motives that this man is different from my father's associates. My instincts tell me he is more dangerous. Perhaps because the threat he might pose isn't just to my life, but to my carefully constructed defenses.

With a bold smile that would scandalize my father, I step deeper into the Paris night, for once walking toward danger instead of away from it. Something tells me the silver-eyed stranger will follow. Something tells me I want him to.

I've spent my life avoiding predators. Perhaps it's time to dance with one.

2

VIKTOR

Surveillance is a game of patience.

I check my watch—2100 hours, marking the third consecutive night monitoring the entrance of Hotel Le Bristol. The night air carries a slight chill, but I don't adjust my position against the limestone building across the street. Movement attracts attention, and attention is the enemy of a ghost.

And that's what I am to the Bratva: a ghost. A vengeful specter they don't yet know exists.

Through my earpiece, Anton's voice breaks the silence. "Petrov's men swept the east quadrant an hour ago. They're getting closer."

The muscles in my back tense imperceptibly. The Petrov faction has been hunting me since St. Petersburg—ever since I infiltrated their weapons shipment and disappeared with both their product and their payment. A necessary risk to fund our operation against Markov, but one with escalating consequences.

"Let them search," I respond, voice low. "They're looking for Viktor Sokolov, not Viktor Baranov."

"Their intelligence network is improving," Anton warns. "They've traced three of our safe houses this month alone. Dmitri barely made it out of Lyon."

I absorb this information silently. The Petrov faction has always been ruthless, but their recent partnership with former FSB operatives has made them dangerously efficient. If they connect me to the Sokolov name before I'm ready to move against Markov, years of planning will collapse like a house of cards.

"Any movement from Kovalev?" Anton asks, changing subjects.

"Negative," I respond. "Still inside with his French associates."

Anton grunts. "Shipment details?"

"Same timeline. Black Sea route, arriving in Marseille in ten days. Final destination Moscow, through Markov's distribution network."

Markov. Even thinking the name sends cold rage coursing through my veins. Mikhail Markov, the butcher of Moscow, the man who carried out my brother's execution, killed my parents, and erased our family name from Bratva history.

"Boss." Anton's voice cuts through my darkening thoughts. "You still with me?"

"Always." I scan the boulevard methodically, cataloging faces, vehicles, potential threats. This section of Paris caters to Russian oligarchs and their associates—designer boutiques, five-star hotels, restaurants where champagne costs more than most people's monthly rent. The perfect hunting ground for Bratva operations and, consequently, for me.

"Any sign of our friend from St. Petersburg?" Anton asks.

"Nothing yet. If Sokolov shows, it confirms the merger with Markov's operation." I adjust my position slightly, maintaining clear sightlines to the hotel entrance. "That would put nearly sixty percent of Eastern European trafficking under single control."

"Fucking empire-building," Anton mutters. "Just like the old days."

The old days. Before Mikhail Markov executed my brother in the snow outside our family dacha. Before he systematically eliminated every member of the Sokolov faction loyal to our bloodline. Before he burned our home with my parents inside and declared the Baranov name extinct.

Misha's face flashes through my mind—not the broken, bloodied mess I found in the snow, but Misha as he lived. Dark hair falling across his forehead as he laughed. Eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled. The way he'd clap my shoulder, always too hard, always with that big-brother affection that simultaneously irritated and comforted me.