The Moscow night was a blade, sharp and cold, cutting through the tinted windows of Dante Kovac's armored Rolls-Royce as it carved a path through the city's frozen veins. The skyline loomed like a graveyard of steel and glass, each tower a monument to power or ruin.
Inside the car, the air was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint clink of Valentina Petrova's leather-bound wrists shifting in her lap. She sat beside Dante, her posture regal despite the restraints, her waist-length black hair catching the faint glow of passing streetlights. Her green eyes, cat-like and unyielding, stared straight ahead, that infuriating smirk still curling her lips. Dante's fingers twitched, itching for a blade, a throat, anything to silence the challenge radiating from her. He'd spent twenty million to own her. Yet, as the car pulled into the shadowed gates of his stronghold, he felt like the one being hunted.
The Kovac estate was a fortress of black marble and iron, a monolith carved from the bones of his enemies. Its walls whispered of blood—spilled in deals gone wrong, in betrayals repaid with bullets. Guards in tailored black suits flanked the entrance, their eyes hard as the Kalashnikovs slung across their chests. Mikhail, Dante's right-hand man, opened the car door, his gaze lingering on Valentina a heartbeat too long. Dante noticed, filing it away. Loyalty was a currency easily spent."Move," Dante commanded, his voice a low growl that carried the weight of a man who'd built an empire on corpses.
Valentina didn't flinch, stepping out with a grace that mocked her bonds. Her black dress clung to her like a second skin, the slit along her thigh flashing defiance with every step. She didn't look at him, but her smirk said enough: I'm not yours yet.Inside, the stronghold's foyer was a cathedral of cruelty—black marble floors veined with gold, chandeliers dripping like frozen blood, and walls lined with portraits of dead Kovacs, their eyes as cold as Dante's.
He led her through the labyrinthine halls, past rooms where men screamed or begged, their fates decided by his whim.
Valentina's steps were steady, her head high, as if she were a queen touring her new domain, not a captive. The audacity of it set Dante's blood on fire.He stopped at a heavy iron door, its surface etched with Cyrillic runes of power and death.
Beyond it was his private chamber, a sanctum where no one entered without invitation—or a death wish. He turned to her, expecting fear, compliance, anything but the fire in her green eyes. "Kneel," he said, his voice a blade unsheathed, sharp enough to cut through bone.Valentina laughed—a low, throaty sound that echoed off the marble like a gunshot. Before he could react, she leaned forward, her bound hands brushing his chest, and spat in his face. The act was deliberate, a spark tossed into gasoline. Dante's vision flashed red, his hand snapping out to seize her throat, slamming her against the door with a force that rattled its hinges. Her pulse thrummed under his fingers, steady, unafraid. Her smirk didn't waver."You think you're clever," he snarled, his ice-blue eyes boring into hers. His grip tightened, not enough to choke but enough to promise pain. "You're mine now, Petrova. Mine to break."Her lips parted, her breath warm against his knuckles. "Break me?" she whispered, her voice silk over steel. "You'll have to try harder than that, Kovac."
Then, with a flick of her tongue, she licked the spit from his cheek, her eyes locked on his, daring him to snap.The air crackled, electric with rage and something darker, something that coiled low in Dante's gut. He'd killed men for less—gutted them, left them bleeding in alleys for daring to look at him wrong. But Valentina's defiance wasn't just rebellion; it was a game, a challenge that sank hooks into his skin. He wanted to crush her, to force her to her knees, to make her beg. But more than that, he wanted her to fight back.He released her throat, only to grab her bound wrists and yank her into the chamber.
The door slammed shut, sealing them in a room that was both throne and battlefield. Black silk draped the walls, a four-poster bed dominated the center, its frame carved with wolves and knives. A rack of blades gleamed in the corner, each one stained with history.
This was where Dante ruled, where he broke those who crossed him. Valentina didn't belong here—she was too alive, too dangerous.She stumbled as he pushed her forward, but caught herself, spinning to face him with that damn smirk. "Nice cage," she said, her voice dripping with mockery. "Do all your pets get such pretty chains?"Dante drew a knife from his belt, its blade catching the dim light like a shard of ice. He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking to nothing. "Keep talking," he said, his voice low, lethal. "It'll make this sweeter."Her eyes flicked to the knife, then back to his face, unafraid. "Oh, Dante," she purred, her tone a mockery of submission. "You think a blade scares me? I was born in blood." She stepped closer, so close the knife's tip grazed her chest, just above the neckline of her dress. "Go on. Cut me."His hand twitched, the urge to slice, to mark, to claim nearly overwhelming. He'd never met anyone like her—Petrova or not, she was a storm in human skin, a creature who thrived on chaos. His empire demanded control, but she was anarchy, and he wanted to drown in it. He pressed the knife harder, a bead of blood welling against her skin. She didn't flinch, only tilted her head, her smirk sharpening into something feral."You're not afraid," he said, almost to himself, the realization both infuriating and intoxicating."Of you?" she laughed, the sound a blade of its own. "I've studied you, Kovac. Every kill, every deal, every scar." Her voice dropped, a whisper meant to burrow under his skin. "I know what you want. And it's not a doll who kneels."Dante's control frayed, a thread snapping in his mind. He dropped the knife, seizing her instead, pinning her to the bed with his weight. The leather cuffs bit into her wrists as he forced them above her head, his body a cage over hers. Her breath hitched—not from fear, but from something else, something that mirrored the heat in his veins. "You're mine," he growled, his lips inches from hers, his voice raw with possession. "Every inch of you. Every thought. Every breath."Valentina's eyes gleamed, green fire in the dark. "We'll see," she whispered, her voice a taunt, a promise, a vow. Then she arched against him, deliberate, her body a weapon as sharp as his blade. The contact was a spark, igniting something neither could control. His grip tightened, bruising, but she only laughed again, low and wicked, her lips brushing his jaw. "Careful, Dante," she murmured. "Own me too hard, and I'll own you back."He froze, her words a poison seeping into his blood. No one owned him. Not his enemies, not his allies, not the ghosts of his past. But as he stared down at her—her smirk, her defiance, her utter refusal to break—he felt the ground shift beneath him. This wasn't just a woman he'd bought. This was a war he hadn't planned for.He shoved himself off her, stepping back, his chest heaving.
The knife lay forgotten on the floor, its blade winking in the candlelight. Valentina sat up, her bound hands resting in her lap, her smirk unshaken. "First blood to me," she said softly, her eyes never leaving his.Dante's jaw clenched, his scars burning under his shirt. He wanted to punish her, to erase that smirk, to make her scream his name in submission. But deep down, in a place he didn't acknowledge, he wanted her to keep fighting. To keep cutting him open. To keep making him feel something other than the cold."Sleep," he snapped, turning toward the door. "Tomorrow, you learn what it means to belong to me."Her laughter followed him, soft and sharp, like glass shattering in the dark. "Oh, Dante," she called, her voice a velvet blade. "Tomorrow, you learn what it means to want me."The door slammed shut, locking her in, but Dante felt the cage around his own heart tightening.
Valentina Petrova wasn't a prize—she was a predator. And as he stalked through the bloodstained halls of his empire, her smirk burned in his mind, a brand he couldn't erase. The game had begun, and for the first time in his life, Dante Kovac wasn't sure he'd win.