The Moscow stronghold was silent, save for the faint howl of wind against its black marble walls.
Valentina Petrova stood at the barred window of her gilded cage, her green cat-like eyes tracing the city's frozen veins below. The leather cuffs on her wrists were gone, replaced by faint bruises that bloomed like dark flowers against her pale skin—marks of Dante's grip, his attempt to claim her. Her lips curled into a smirk, but it faltered, her mind slipping back to a night eight years ago when her world burned, and she became the ghost she was today.
The past was a blade, sharp and unyielding, and it cut through her now, dragging her into memories she'd buried beneath layers of steel and cunning.
Eight years ago, St. Petersburg. The Petrova estate was a fortress of old money and older grudges, its gold-trimmed halls reeking of vodka and betrayal. Valentina, seventeen, was no innocent—she'd been raised in the shadow of her father, Ivan Petrova, a Russian mob king whose name was whispered with fear. She'd learned to fire a gun before she could read, to smile while men bled, to listen when allies plotted behind closed doors. But that night, the lessons ended in fire.She remembered the screams first—her mother's, high and sharp, cut short by a silenced bullet. Then the gunfire, a staccato rhythm that tore through the estate's walls. Valentina had been in her room, sharpening a knife her father gave her, when the chaos began. She'd slipped into the hidden passages her father had shown her, the ones carved for escapes like this. From the shadows, she watched it unfold: masked men in black, moving with military precision, slaughtering her family.
Her mother lay in a pool of blood, her pearl necklace scattered like broken teeth. Her older brother, Dmitri, fought back, killing three before a blade found his heart. And her father—Ivan, the unyielding king—stood in the grand hall, facing a man whose face Valentina couldn't see."You betrayed us," Ivan spat, his voice steady even as blood seeped from a wound in his side. The man laughed, a sound like gravel under boots, and raised his gun. "Business, Ivan. Nothing personal."
The shot was deafening, a single bullet to the head. Ivan Petrova fell, and with him, the Petrova dynasty crumbled.Valentina's hands shook as she pressed herself against the passage's cold stone, her knife clutched tight. She wanted to scream, to fight, to carve the man's heart out. But she was seventeen, outnumbered, and her father's last words echoed in her mind: Survive, Lenochka. Survive, and make them pay. So she ran, slipping through the passages to the riverbank, where flames from the burning estate lit the night orange. She didn't cry.
Tears were for the weak, and she was Petrova blood.The official story was simple: the Petrova family died in a fire, a tragic accident. Valentina Petrova, the only daughter, was presumed among the ashes. But she wasn't. She'd cut her palm, smeared her blood on a charred dress, and left it in the rubble—a ghost's calling card. She vanished into the underbelly of Europe, a teenager with nothing but a knife, a name, and a hunger that grew sharper with every passing day.
Revenge wasn't enough. She didn't want to kill her enemies—she wanted to own them, to sit on a throne built from their bones.For years, she trained in the shadows. In Berlin's fight clubs, she learned to break bones with her bare hands, her body becoming a weapon as lethal as her mind. In Istanbul's black markets, she studied the art of manipulation, charming smugglers and assassins into teaching her their trade.
In London, she hacked into encrypted networks, piecing together the underworld's secrets. And everywhere, she watched him—Dante Kovac, the Bratva king who'd risen from the ashes of her father's world.She'd first seen him in a grainy video, a surveillance feed from a Moscow deal gone wrong.
Dante, younger then, his ice-blue eyes cold as he slit the throat of a traitor, his movements precise, almost beautiful. He'd killed three men that night, men who'd been allied with her father's enemies. Valentina hadn't known why, but she'd felt it—a pull, a spark, a recognition of something dark and mirrored in his soul. He wasn't just a killer; he was a force, a man who bent the world to his will. And she wanted that power. Not to destroy him, but to claim it, to sit beside him on a throne of blood and silk.
Her obsession grew, a fire fed by every story of his ruthlessness, every whisper of his empire. She collected fragments of him—photos, files, rumors of his scars, his code, his refusal to love. She learned his rituals: the blood oaths, the knives, the way he marked what was his. She knew he'd killed her father's betrayer, though she never learned who ordered the hit. It didn't matter. Dante was the key—not to her past, but to her future. She didn't want revenge. She wanted his crown.So she planned. For years, she wove her web, trading favors with smugglers, planting seeds of chaos among Dante's rivals. She let herself be "captured" by a Turkish trafficker, knowing his auctions drew the underworld's elite. She'd staged every detail—the drugs in her system, the leather cuffs, the cage—knowing Dante would be there, knowing he'd see Petrova blood and want it. And he had. Twenty million dollars, a fortune for a ghost. But as she stood in his stronghold now, her smirk returned, because the real price was his empire, and she was already collecting.The memory faded, the past receding like a tide.
Valentina blinked, her eyes refocusing on the Moscow skyline, its lights winking like eyes in the dark. She was no longer that seventeen-year-old girl, trembling in a passage. She was twenty-five, a predator in silk, her heart a vault of secrets and schemes. Dante thought he'd bought her, thought he could break her. But she'd chosen this cage, chosen him, and every step was part of her dance.The door opened, and Dante entered, his presence a storm that stirred the air. He wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal tattooed forearms, his ice-blue eyes scanning her like a hunter sizing up prey. The bruises on her shoulder throbbed under his gaze, a reminder of their last clash. He expected submission today, compliance after her defiance. She'd give him neither."You're quiet," he said, his voice low, edged with suspicion. He crossed the room, stopping close enough that she could smell his scent—gunpowder, cedar, and something darker, like blood dried in the sun. "Planning your next move?"
Valentina turned, her smirk slow and deliberate. "Always," she said, her voice a purr that hid steel. "But you already knew that, didn't you?" She stepped closer, her silk robe brushing his chest, her bound hands—freed now, but she let him think they weren't—resting lightly on his arm. "You're not the only one who plays to win, Kovac."His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something—anger, desire, fascination—crossing his face. "You think you can outplay me?" he asked, his hand catching her wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise again. "This is my world, Petrova. You're just a guest."She laughed, the sound sharp, cutting through the room's tension. "A guest?" she said, leaning in until her lips were a breath from his. "I'm your reckoning." Her words were a blade, aimed at the cracks in his control, and she saw them hit—his jaw clenched, his grip tightened, his eyes darkened with something that wasn't just rage.He yanked her closer, his other hand tangling in her hair, forcing her head back. "Keep pushing," he growled, his voice a promise of violence. "See what it gets you."Her smirk didn't waver. "Oh, I will," she whispered, her green eyes burning into his. "And when I'm done, you'll be the one kneeling."The air crackled, their breaths mingling, the past and present colliding in a moment that could ignite or destroy.
Valentina felt the weight of her history—her family's blood, her father's death, her years in the shadows—fueling her now. She wasn't here to mourn. She was here to conquer. And Dante Kovac, with his scars and his throne, was the prize she'd bleed for.