7. Vladimir
Vladimir
New York City is mine.
I have ruled it for the past eleven years, taking over the Bratva when my father, Ivan Petrov, stepped down, handing the reins to me while he returned to Russia to sit on the council.
My father is a great, ruthless man, feared by many and respected by many more. He taught my brother and me how to be men, how to wield power with a controlled hand—when to be charming and generous and when to be cold and merciless.
He always says power is about balance. Play the part, give money where it’s needed, keep the right people happy, and you can operate in peace.
A man like my father never makes unnecessary enemies, only useful ones. And if that doesn’t work out, then snapping a neck or two with your bare hands tends to send a loud enough message.
Tonight, the fundraiser is just another performance in that act, another opportunity to show our power while appearing to be nothing more than generous benefactors.
I move through the room with calculated ease, offering nods and firm handshakes to men who think they run this city, to politicians who smile for the cameras while pocketing favors.
Like the past few months, my mind is elsewhere.
I take the stage as expected, delivering the speech that has been prepared for me. The usual promises, the usual smiles, the same well-rehearsed lines about community and progress. It is second nature, and yet, as I speak, my gaze drifts over the sea of faces. That is when I see a familiar face.
Isabella Holmes comes from old money and is one of the most influential people in this room.
However, the public doesn’t realize that she is just like us.
To the casual observer, she is simply the head of the Horizon Outreach Foundation, but in underground circles, she is recognized as one of the most skilled assassins in existence.
Her history with my father runs deep. When my mystery assassin first made her appearance, I called Isabella and demanded any information she had about the hit, as it seemed too close to home for her.
Of course, she denied anything and everything and hung up.
I couldn’t threaten her like I normally would because, again, she is a known assassin herself. And my father would probably scold me like I’m not a grown man, so I left it as is.
As I step off the stage and make my way toward them, something in the air changes.
The smell of lavender and vanilla assaults my senses.
When I finally reach them, Isabella greets me with her usual knowing smile.
“Vladimir, it’s good to see you again,” she says, offering her hand.
“Isabella,” I return, shaking it firmly. My gaze flickers to the three women standing beside her, taking them in for the first time.
She gestures to the first. “This is Raven Yang.”
Raven inclines her head slightly, her expression unreadable. Isabella moves to the next. “And Amani Harper.”
Amani grins, her dark brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Pleasure, Vladimir.”
Then, Isabella turns to the last woman.
Her voice shifts ever so slightly—subtle, but unmistakable. A change only a fool would miss.
“And this,” she says, “is Luna Imala.”
Luna.
A Goddess carved from stardust and shadow—radiant, ruthless, celestial.
She wears deep blue velvet like it was made to kneel at her feet, the fabric molding to her body with sacred intent.
It’s more than a dress—it’s a declaration.
Velvet sin wrapped in elegance. The high slit slicing up her thigh doesn’t just flirt with danger—it promises it, cloaked in grace and quiet violence.
And then there’s her hair—wild, unapologetic curls cascading like a crown, declaring her untamable before she even speaks.
But it’s her eyes that undo me.
I know those eyes.
Unmoved. Unshaken. Unforgiving.
She doesn’t move, but the atmosphere around her shifts—thickens. Trembles.
And me? I’m just trying to remember how to breathe.
My gaze, my pulse—no longer mine.
I don’t know what I expect. A smirk? A flicker of recognition? A spark of curiosity?
Instead, she looks at me like a riddle she’s already solved.
The corner of my mouth lifts slightly, and I turn back to the group, my tone light but firm.
“Only my enemies call me Vladimir,” I say, letting my gaze drift back to Luna. “You can call me Vlad.”
Raven raises a brow but accepts the introduction with a brief handshake.
Amani grin spreads wider. “Well, Vlad, It's a pleasure .”
I chuckle, shaking her hand before turning to the last woman.
Luna.
She doesn’t move at first.
Then, after a beat, she extends her hand. But when she speaks, her voice is smooth, unbothered.
“Nice to meet you, Vladimir.”
I clench my jaw.
So that’s how this is going to be.
I accept her hand, noting how warm her skin is against mine.
I should let go. Should keep this civil.
But I don’t.
I hold her gaze, tightening my grip just enough for her to notice—a warning.
Her lips twitch.
I turn back to Isabella, careful not to let any of my thoughts show. “I didn’t realize we had such powerful women in the room.”
Isabella, Raven, and Amani all laugh softly, small smiles playing on their lips. But Luna? She still stares at me. Unwavering.
Isabella chuckles, either oblivious to—or completely aware of—the tension thickening between me and her prized assassin. “Oh, Vlad, you don’t have to flirt with this old woman to get what you want.”
That is when I notice it—the shift in Luna’s stance.
It is subtle, but it is there. The slight straightening of her shoulders, the poised stillness that comes with someone who has survived the worst and comes out sharper for it.
There is something lethal in her posture, something that tells me she has seen and done things most men wouldn’t survive.
“Is that so?” I muse, tilting my head slightly.
Luna finally speaks, her voice smooth with the faintest hint of an accent I can’t quite place. “If you want a demonstration of how powerful we can be,” she says, her tone unreadable, “all you have to do is ask.”
The challenge is clear.
I smirk, slow and deliberate. “Is that an invitation?”
Her lips twitch, not quite a smile, but something close. “That depends.”
The air between us crackles, thick with something dangerous, something neither of us has the good sense to step away from. Isabella continues speaking, but I barely hear her.
I am too busy imagining how easily Luna could ruin a man like me.
And how much I might let her.
I wonder: Does my Goddess of Death have another knife hidden on her right now?