The newsroom was packed with journalists and flashing cameras, all vying for a closer view of the man seated at the podium. Anton Vasiliev, head of the influential Vasiliev family, looked every bit the grieving father. Dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his silver hair combed neatly, and his steely blue eyes glassy with feigned sorrow, he leaned forward into the microphone, his voice steady but laced with an expertly performed anguish.
"My daughter, Marina Vasiliev, has been abducted," he announced, pausing for dramatic effect as gasps rippled through the room. "She was last seen a week ago, and despite our best efforts to locate her, she remains missing. To those responsible for this heinous act, I plead with you—return her unharmed. The Vasiliev family will spare no expense to ensure her safe return."
The cameras clicked furiously, and reporters shouted questions over one another. Anton held up a hand, a practiced gesture of control.
"This is not just a personal matter," he continued. "It is a crime against decency, against family. And I promise you, those who have done this will face justice."
His words were measured, deliberate. He knew the power of public perception. Behind the mask of concern, he was already scheming, spinning this narrative into a weapon he could wield against his enemies. If Viktor Castellano had Marina, this press conference was designed to put him in an impossible position—either release her and risk exposure or keep her hidden and face the wrath of the Vasiliev name.
Meanwhile, in the sprawling Castellano estate, the tension was palpable. The massive living room, with its high ceilings and intricate chandeliers, felt stifling despite its grandeur. A large flat-screen television displayed the live broadcast of Anton's performance.
Marina stood frozen, her hands clenched into fists. Her black eyes reflected both fury and helplessness. "He's lying," she hissed, pacing the room. "He's making it seem like I'm some innocent victim. The truth is, he'd kill me himself if he could."
Viktor leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching her with an unreadable expression. His towering presence dominated the room, his height adding an air of intimidation that was impossible to ignore. At six-foot-four, he was a man who seemed carved from stone—broad-shouldered, lean, and effortlessly commanding. His sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and piercing dark eyes were the kind of features that could make anyone falter.
Even now, as the light from the television flickered across his face, he looked devastatingly handsome. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a hint of the taut muscles beneath, and the sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, showcasing veins that ran like rivers over his strong hands.
But it wasn't just his looks that made him magnetic. It was the aura of control, the way he carried himself as if the world bent to his will.
"You knew he would do this," Viktor said, his voice calm yet edged with steel.
Marina turned to face him, her chest heaving with frustration. "And you're just going to let him? He's painting himself as the victim while I'm the one running for my life!"
Viktor pushed off the doorframe and took a slow step toward her, his gaze locked onto hers. "What would you have me do, Marina? Call a press conference of my own?"
Her defiance faltered under the weight of his stare. His presence was too much—too overwhelming. She took a step back, her breath catching as he closed the distance between them in two strides.
"You're safe here," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "No one will touch you as long as you're under my roof."
The words were meant to reassure her, but the heat in his gaze made her pulse race for an entirely different reason. She hated how he could do this to her—how he could strip away her defenses with a single look.
"Safe?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "From my father, maybe. But not from you."
The corner of Viktor's mouth twitched into a faint, dangerous smile. "Is that what you're afraid of, Marina? Me?"
She swallowed hard, refusing to back down. "You think you can control everything, don't you?"
He leaned in, his face inches from hers. The faint scent of his cologne—spicy and dark—made her head spin. "I don't think, Marina. I know."
The air between them crackled with tension, an unspoken challenge passing between their locked gazes. Viktor reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. His fingers were warm, gentle—a stark contrast to the ruthless man she knew him to be.
"You should rest," he said, his voice softer now. "Things are going to get more complicated from here."
Marina stepped back, desperate to put some distance between them. "Don't tell me what to do."
Viktor's smile widened, his amusement barely contained. "As you wish."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Marina stood there, her heart pounding in her chest. She hated how he affected her, how her body reacted to his presence even as her mind screamed to resist.
But deep down, she couldn't deny it. Viktor Castellano wasn't just her protector. He was her greatest danger.
Back in Anton's private office, the press conference had ended, and the facade of concern had vanished. He sat behind his desk, his expression cold and calculating as he poured himself a glass of whiskey.
"She's with Castellano," he said, addressing the shadowy figure standing by the window. "I'm certain of it."
"And what do you plan to do about it?" the man asked, his voice low and gravelly.
Anton swirled the amber liquid in his glass, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "For now, we let the world think I'm the desperate father searching for his beloved daughter. But soon…" He took a sip, his eyes gleaming with malice. "We'll remind Viktor Castellano that even he isn't untouchable."
The figure nodded, melting into the shadows as Anton leaned back in his chair. He knew the game he was playing was dangerous, but he had no intention of losing. Not to Viktor. And certainly not to Marina.