Chapter 1:
Shadows of Power
The night was cold, oppressive, the kind that seeped into the bones and lingered like an omen of death. The city of Moscow lay in shadow beneath a blanket of fog, its ancient streets winding like serpents through a labyrinth of stone and steel. The pulse of the city beat quietly, its underbelly simmering with secrets, violence, and illicit deals. Among those secrets, none were more feared than Dmitry Ivanov, leader of the Ivanov Bratva—a man whose name alone could silence a room and make hearts quiver with dread.
Dmitry leaned back in his chair in his vast office at the top of a private skyscraper. The entire building was his empire's heart, pulsating with the illicit wealth and power that sustained him. His suit was immaculate, his tie loosened just slightly at the neck, revealing the sharp lines of his jaw and the faint scar that cut across it. His icy blue eyes scanned the city below as though it were his personal chessboard, each piece in its place, waiting for his command.
But tonight, something was wrong. He could feel it like a tremor in the air, a disturbance he couldn't quite place.
The phone on his desk buzzed.
"Speak," Dmitry's voice was low, a gravelly growl that carried the weight of violence barely restrained.
"Boss," came the nervous voice of one of his lieutenants, Sergei. "There was an attack. Yuri's dead, and they got you too—hit bad."
For a moment, there was silence. Dmitry didn't flinch at the mention of Yuri's death—his men were soldiers, and soldiers died. But the fact that someone had the audacity to come after him, the head of the Ivanov Bratva, was an unforgivable sin.
Dmitry rose slowly, pressing a hand to his side, and for the first time in years, he winced. Warm blood oozed between his fingers, staining his crisp white shirt. The pain had been dull at first, masked by his focus, but now it surged like fire through his body.
"Where are the men?" he asked, his voice calm despite the blood pooling at his feet.
"Dead. Almost all of them," Sergei answered. "We'll get you to the doctor. Just hold on."
Dmitry's grip on the phone tightened, but he nodded to no one in particular, his vision blurring. He couldn't die—not like this, not tonight. And yet, his strength was waning, slipping through his grasp like water.
Minutes later, the door to his office burst open, and Sergei, along with two other men, stormed in. They were bloodied, faces pale, but determined. They took Dmitry by the arms and began hauling him out of the building, through secret passages and stairwells, trying to get him out before anyone else could come for him.
He blacked out as they pulled him into the backseat of a car. The last thing Dmitry remembered was Sergei shouting, then the distinct sensation of cold metal pressed against his wound.
The scent of antiseptic was the first thing Dmitry noticed when he woke up. His body was weak, though his mind fought to regain control. The world around him was sterile, white, and clinical—alien to a man who thrived on control, violence, and power.
A figure moved in the periphery of his vision. Slender, poised, her movements precise. She wasn't one of his usual doctors. Dmitry's eyes followed her every step, noting the sharp angles of her face partially hidden beneath a mask and the dark hair tied back in a tight bun. She had an air of command around her, something cold and detached, almost robotic in the way she worked. Her hands were deft, removing bloodied bandages and applying fresh ones.
"Where am I?" Dmitry's voice was hoarse, his throat dry.
The woman didn't answer immediately, her focus on the wound she was treating. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but firm, with an accent that hinted at a complex past. "Safe. For now."
Dmitry narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
"Dr. Alina Morozov," she said, without looking at him. Her tone was clipped, professional. "You're lucky to be alive."
"I don't believe in luck." Dmitry's eyes burned into her, searching for any sign of weakness, something he could exploit. She was beautiful, yes, but in a cold, untouchable way. Not the kind of beauty that lured men in with warmth, but one that promised danger.
"Good," Alina replied calmly, adjusting an IV drip without sparing him another glance. "Then I won't expect any thank-yous."
Dmitry's lipscurved into a faint smile, though it was devoid of warmth. "You don't seem like the type to care for gratitude."
Alina's hands stilled for a bief moment before she resumed her work. "I care about my patients surviving. That's all."
"You know who I am," Dmitry said, his voice growing quieter, more dangerous. "Yet you're not afraid."
Alina finally met his gaze, her dark eyes sharp and calculating. "Fear has no place in my work, Mr. Ivanov. I'm here to save your life, not cower before you."
Dmitry stared at her, intrigued by her defiance. Most people quaked in his presence, their fear palpable. But Alina—there was something different about her. She wasn't just indifferent—she was detached, as though whatever horrors she'd seen before had stripped away any emotion. He could sense the shadows behind her calm façade, but he couldn't yet see them clearly.
A moment of silence stretched between them, tension heavy in the air.
"You have a strange way of showing respect to the man who keeps your city in line," Dmitry said, his voice low but laced with warning.
Alina merely shrugged. "Respect is earned, not given. If you want mine, don't die on my table."
Her words were like a slap in the face, yet Dmitry couldn't help the small flicker of admiration that sparked within him. Few dared to speak to him this way. He'd had doctors before—paid, bribed, or threatened into loyalty—but none like her.
"I'll be watching you closely," Dmitry said, his voice dangerous, but there was a hint of something more, something curious. "You're not like the others."
"No," Alina replied, her eyes meeting his with a steady, unflinching gaze. "I'm not."
Dmitry watched her for a moment longer, his mind swirling with questions. Who was this woman who treated him like just another patient? What secrets did she hide behind those dark eyes?
As the pain began to numb and his vision faded once again into darkness, one thing became clear to Dmitry: Alina Morozov was far more dangerous than she appeared.