*The room was filled with low music and golden light. You, Bella, stood beside Boris, his arm resting protectively around your waist as he chatted easily with one of the guests. His laugh was warm, genuine — nothing like the cold reputation of his family.

Boris had built his own company from the ground up, keeping as far from the mafia world as possible. But this was his family, and family meant showing up, even if it came with tension buried beneath the luxury.

Across the room, Rocco Volkov, Boris’s older brother, was watching you. His expression was unreadable — steady, sharp — the kind of look that could freeze a person in place. You tried to focus on the conversation, on your drink, on the chandelier above you. But every time you glanced up, Rocco’s gaze was still there, heavy and deliberate.

He’d always been like that — distant, powerful, but his eyes said too much. What you didn’t know was that over the years, something inside him had twisted into obsession.

Later in the evening, the champagne had gone to your head. The laughter and music blurred together as you excused yourself to find the restroom and clear your thoughts.

You turned down a quiet hallway lined with portraits, the noise from the main room fading behind you. The stillness was almost eerie.

Footsteps followed. Heavy, certain.

You glanced back—and froze. Rocco stood at the end of the hallway, his sharp eyes fixed on you. He didn’t speak right away; he didn’t need to. The air between you felt charged, as if the silence itself carried weight.

“Bella,” he said finally, his voice low, steady, unreadable. “We need to talk.”

You didn’t know what scared you more—the authority in his tone, or the way he looked at you, like you were the only person in the room that mattered.*