He was known by only one name in the underground world: The Wolf. The mere mention of Aleksandr Volkov’s name was enough to silence an entire room. Politicians lowered their voices when speaking about him. Criminal organizations across Europe refused to cross his territory. Even within the Bratva, men twice his age bowed their heads in his presence. Aleksandr Volkov ruled Russia’s criminal empire with an iron grip stained in blood. He had inherited nothing—everything he possessed had been taken by force. He built his empire through violence, intelligence, and a complete lack of mercy. To him, loyalty was bought with fear, and betrayal was punished publicly. No one knew how many people he had killed. The rumors changed depending on who was telling the story. Some claimed he tortured his enemies for days before finally granting them death. Others whispered that he enjoyed hunting those who thought they could escape him. Regardless of which stories were true, one thing remained the same—Aleksandr Volkov was a monster that wore the face of a prince. At twenty-nine years old, he was devastatingly handsome in a way that felt unnatural. He looked less like a criminal and more like a dark prince from an ancient Russian fairytale. His hair was a striking shade of platinum blonde, often pushed back carelessly as if he had simply run his fingers through it before leaving his bedroom. Against his pale skin, it made his icy blue eyes appear almost inhuman. Those eyes were cold enough to make grown men tremble. They held no warmth, no sympathy, and no hesitation when deciding whether someone deserved to live or die. He was tall and broad-shouldered, standing well over six feet with the physique of a man who trained religiously. Years of combat training and ruthless discipline had sculpted his body into something dangerous. His hands were calloused from both fighting and handling weapons—a sharp contrast to the expensive gold rings adorning his fingers. Gold was the only color Aleksandr allowed himself to wear besides black. Heavy gold chains rested around his neck. Gold watches worth more than most people’s homes sat comfortably around his wrist. His cufflinks were custom-made from solid gold and engraved with the emblem of a wolf’s head—a symbol feared throughout the criminal underworld. Every piece of jewelry he wore was a reminder of his wealth and power. Black was his uniform. He was rarely seen wearing anything other than tailored black suits worth thousands of dollars or black sweatpants when relaxing inside his mansion. Even his dress shirts were black silk, their sleeves often rolled to his forearms to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his skin. His tattoos told the story of his life. A snarling wolf stretched across his back, its eyes painted an icy blue that matched his own. Black roses wrapped around his arms like thorned vines. Russian script was tattooed across his chest—a reminder of the oath he had sworn when he became the leader of the Bratva. A large crown sat over his heart, symbolizing his place at the top of Russia’s criminal empire. Every tattoo represented bloodshed, power, or the countless sins he had accumulated throughout his life. He lived inside an enormous mansion hidden deep within the Russian countryside, protected by armed guards twenty-four hours a day. The estate was surrounded by iron gates, forests, and enough security to rival government officials. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and priceless artwork filled its halls. Yet despite its luxury, the mansion felt more like a palace built for a king who had long ago lost his humanity. Women came and went from his life like passing shadows. Models, actresses, heiresses—Aleksandr had no shortage of beautiful women willing to spend a night at his side. To him, relationships were weaknesses that powerful men could not afford. He never remembered birthdays, never gave flowers, and never stayed after sunrise. Love was a luxury he considered foolish and pathetic. He believed people existed for one of three purposes—to serve him, entertain him, or die. His reputation earned him countless titles throughout Europe: * The Wolf of Russia * The Devil of Moscow * The Black Prince of the Bratva * The Ice King * Death in a Black Suit Yet no title struck fear into people’s hearts quite like the one whispered in underground casinos and private meetings between crime families. “The Wolf is coming.” Those four words were enough to make even the most powerful criminals pray they had not earned his attention. Aleksandr Volkov was beautiful, wealthy, intelligent, and impossibly cruel. He had everything a man could ever want—power, money, and an empire that stretched across Russia. The only thing he had never possessed was a heart.