The lavish mansion, nestled in the outskirts of Chicago, gleamed under the moonlight, its sprawling grounds heavily guarded by armed men in sleek black suits. A procession of luxury cars wound up the long driveway, each vehicle bringing a notorious figure from the criminal underworld.

Such gatherings were rare—an assembly of the most dangerous men in the world, united under one roof for a summit of kings. Inside, the air was thick with tension, the rich scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey mingling with an oppressive silence that weighed down on the grandiose ballroom. The polished floor reflected the golden chandeliers above, casting long, foreboding shadows over the men taking their seats at the massive oval table. This was no mere meeting; here, alliances would be forged, rivalries would be tested, and the fragile peace between the most powerful criminal families would either hold—or break, with consequences far beyond repair.

The heavy wooden doors of the conference room closed with an ominous thud, sealing the crime bosses inside. Sergey’s icy gaze swept the room, briefly flicking over the hardened faces of the men who controlled the world from the shadows. The air crackled with unspoken tension as the men settled into their seats, a reminder that in this room, nothing—no deal, no promise—was ever as simple as it seemed.

His gaze flicked to Baron, the sly Cajun leader of the Voodoo Boys. The man oozed charm like a snake oozes venom, always ready with a smile and a quip. But Sergey knew the cruelty that lurked beneath that debonair facade.

Fucker would sell out his own mother for a piece of the pie, he sneered internally.

Next to him sat Diego Cozzone, the don of the Cozzone Familia. With his slicked-back hair and shark-like grin, Thinks he's untouchable just because he's got the police chief in his silk-lined pockets. Ambitious, ruthless, always pushing for more. Sergey could respect the hustle, but the man's ego was writing checks his ass couldn't cash.

Liam "King" Sutherland lounged in his chair, long legs stretched out under the table, looking for all the world like he was at a fucking garden party rather than a high-stakes criminal summit. The Vegas kingpin radiating a casual sort of menace. The man controlled sin city's vices with an iron fist in a velvet glove. Sergey had no illusions about the depravity that oily smile concealed.

And then there was Eoghan McTavish, the grizzled Irish mobster, sat stone-faced, his eyes promising retribution. The temporary truce with the Italians was tenuous at best, a powder keg waiting for a spark. Sergey knew it was only a matter of time before the streets ran red again.

Just gotta make sure it ain't with our blood this time.

But it was the new face that caught Sergey's eye, the leader of the fledgling Boston outfit. The older man was an enigma, an unknown quantity in a room full of devils Sergey knew all too well. The Boston underworld had long been ruled by men who built their empire on blood, whiskey, and old-world tradition. Their grip on the city was ironclad, their alliances deeply rooted in generations of brotherhood. No one had ever dared challenge them—until he came along.

No whispers preceded his rise. No warnings. One day, the old guard sat atop their thrones, secure in their power. The next, they were gone—erased in a single, brutal night. A warehouse meeting turned into a slaughter, bodies stacked like firewood, their blood staining the cold cement floor. Safe houses burned, once-loyal enforcers disappeared, and by the time the city woke, the old Boston crew was nothing more than a ghost story.

No one saw it coming.

And that was what made him dangerous.

He hadn't just taken over; he had obliterated the past. No debts owed, no favors lingering—just a new kingdom built on the ashes of the old. Now, he sat at the table with the devils of the world, and Sergey knew better than to underestimate a man who had torn down an empire in a single night.

Gotta keep an eye on that one. New blood always thinks it's hungrier than the old.

The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on as Vasilli called the meeting to order, his booming voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation.

"Gentlemen, we have much to discuss," Vasilli began, his heavy Russian accent carrying an unmistakable edge of authority. His sharp gaze swept across the room, daring anyone to challenge his control. "First order of business—" he continued, his voice steady, deliberate.

The room remained silent as he methodically listed each topic, his words slicing through the thick tension in the air. Territories, supply lines, unresolved debts—one by one, the issues were laid bare on the polished surface of the table, each item a potential spark to ignite war or cement uneasy alliances. The men seated around him listened, some with cold calculation, others with barely concealed impatience, knowing that beneath the formalities, blood and power were the true currency of the night.

As the discussion turned to expanding smuggling routes and money laundering schemes, Sergey fought the urge to zone out. Same shit, different day. His fingers tapped idly against the table, his mind drifting—until a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision reeled him back in.

That woman.

She slipped from the conference room into the hallway, her movements smooth, deliberate. He barely spared her a glance. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

The truth? He’d noticed her the moment the Boston crew walked in. Had clocked the way she carried herself, the way her gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary before she looked away. He’d told himself he didn’t care. Convinced himself she was just another face in the crowd.

Big mistake.

Because now, as he watched her slip away from the testosterone-fueled pissing contest, he felt a pull he couldn't quite explain. A tug in his gut, a twist in his chest. Like a compass needle swinging true north. He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know a damn thing about her, but every fiber of his being was screaming at him to follow her.

Well Sergey had never been a man to deny his impulses.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Sergey was on his feet, making some half-assed excuse to Vasilli before slipping out of the room. He stalked down the hallway, his predator's instincts taking over as he followed her scent.

He found her in a small drawing room, her back to him as she gazed out the window at the moonlit gardens. Sergey's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her, the way the silvery light caressed her features making her look almost untouchable—almost.

I have to have her, he thought, a low growl rumbling in his chest. I've never wanted anything so much in my fucking life.

Before he could think twice, he moved. Two swift strides and he was behind her, his hands gripping her waist, spinning her around with a force that left no room for protest. He caged her in, arms braced on either side, his face mere inches from hers.

Her scent wrapped around him, heady and intoxicating, making it impossible to think. The heat radiating from her body burned through the thin layer of restraint he had left. He wanted to sink into her, to drown in everything she was, to claim her in a way that left no doubt—no way out.

She’ll ruin me, the realization hit like a blade sliding between his ribs.

And I’ll let her.

Sergey leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, his voice a low rasp laced with hunger. “I don’t even know your name,” he admitted, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “But I know I want you. I’ve never felt like this before—like I’ll fucking die if I can’t have you.”

He pressed her back against the wall, his body a solid, unrelenting force caging her in. The space between them was thick with something dark, electric—an invisible pull that set his blood on fire.

His hand slid up, curling around her jaw, his thumb grazing her cheek as he tilted her face toward him. His gaze burned, searing into hers, daring her to look away.

“There’s nowhere to run, котёнок (Kitten),” he murmured, his breath ghosting over her lips. “Tell me to stop... or don’t.”

His mouth hovered a hairsbreadth from hers, teasing, taunting—waiting for her to shatter first.