Her office was a controlled oasis of calm. Warm white walls, minimalist furniture, shelves lined with psychology books, framed diplomas, and a faint hint of lavender drifting in the air. Isabelle Moretti had carved out this sanctuary in the heart of Manhattan—far from the name she bore and the legacy she could never outrun. Don Moretti—her father—had no idea that his daughter, a respected psychologist, was also the clandestine leader of an underground criminal network: the '96 Syndicate.
She had just finished a tense session with a CEO obsessed with control and was headed for the last appointment of the day. A generic name showed up on her calendar: D. Volkov. At first, it meant nothing. But the last-minute booking, the cold tone in the voicemail, and a vague familiarity in the voice made her uneasy.
When the door opened and the man stepped in, Isabelle felt time stop.
It was him.
Dimitri Volkov. Same ice-blue eyes, sharp features, ironic smile. The son of Mikhail Volkov—her father's old rival and one of the most feared Russian crime lords in New York.
But to Isabelle, he was more than just a name.
He was her nineteen-year-old mistake. A party in the Hamptons, cheap vodka, loud music, skin set aflame by youthful recklessness. A night they never spoke of. A night that shaped them both.
"Isabelle," he said simply, as if ten years hadn't passed. "I haven't forgotten your scent."
She blinked, but kept her professional mask intact.
"You're here for therapy. Please, take a seat. Or… perhaps you're on the wrong floor?"
Dimitri sat down. Graceful. Calm. Dangerous.
"Therapy, of course. I'm… wrestling with inner conflicts. Recurring dreams. I often think about people who lead double lives."
She folded her hands over her knees.
"If you came here to provoke me, know that I've heard better lines from patients with borderline disorders."
"I'm not joking, Isy. I did my homework. They say the new head of the '96 Syndicate is a ghost. No one knows what she looks like. But everyone agrees—she's lethal, organized… and speaks Italian with a Roman accent."
Isabelle didn't move. Only her pupil contracted—just enough to betray a dangerous truth.
"Are you here to blackmail me?"
"No. To make an offer. You have enemies. I have networks. Maybe we work together."
"Or maybe I throw you out the door and send you a farewell message with a bullet in your tire."
Dimitri leaned forward slightly.
"You've grown. I remember the girl who laughed while dancing barefoot on your father's marble floors."
"And I remember the boy who thought sex could seal alliances. So what is this, Volkov? Are you here to sell me protection? Or to buy me?"
His smile widened.
"Maybe both. Or maybe I came to see if the woman I once touched still exists behind the doctor's mask."
She rose. Approached him with slow, deliberate steps. Lifted his chin with two fingers.
"If you think you can still play that game with me… you're crazier than my patients. And do you know what I do to the crazies who provoke me?"
"You treat them?"
"I destroy them. Slowly. Methodically. Like a mechanism that needs to be understood before it can be dismantled."
Dimitri stood.
"Then I'm glad I made an appointment for next week. Should be… enlightening."
And he left—leaving behind only the echo of his voice and the lingering trace of expensive cologne laced with danger.
Isabelle sat down again. She was trembling—not with fear, but with adrenaline. The thrill of a game she thought was long buried.
Her phone buzzed.
Lucian: "D.V. was in Harlem today. We working with Russians now, Belle?"
Lucian was the only one who knew who she really was. In private, he always called her Belle or Isabelle.
She smiled—cold, confident.
"No. Don't worry about him. I'm handling it. The game is just getting started."
And in that moment, Manhattan looked to her like a chessboard—and she and Dimitri, two kings playing without pawns.
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