Location: Dmitri's Private Apartment, Moscow
The rain outside was soft, a deceitful lullaby muffling the weight of betrayal simmering in the penthouse suite.
Tatiana Volkov sat on the edge of Dmitri Morozov's sleek black piano bench, legs crossed, a crystal glass of vodka in one hand, her other tapping the lacquered surface in rhythm with her annoyance.
"You've let him grow too strong," she said coolly, eyes narrowed toward the city skyline. "He was supposed to be a brute..not a leader. Now they bow to him."
Dmitri stood by the window, shirtless, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the faint red glow matching the anger burning beneath his skin.
"He was always the favored one," Dmitri muttered, his voice laced with venom. "Ivan gave him everything. Let him bleed for this family, yes..but now he acts like a king."
Tatiana rose slowly, her heels clicking softly against marble. She stopped behind him, fingertips trailing along his scarred shoulder. "Then take the crown. Let him bleed for real this time."
He turned to face her, smirking bitterly. "You think I haven't tried?"
"Not hard enough," she said, voice velvet and steel. "He's distracted. Vulnerable. You told me yourself…he's been disappearing more. Acting strange. There's a weakness. We use it."
Dmitri studied her face, then looked away. "And when it's done?"
Tatiana stepped closer, their bodies a breath apart. "When it's done, you sit where you deserve to. And I become what I was bred to be."
His lips twisted. "The queen?"
"The empire's queen," she corrected, her voice low, dangerous.
They stood like that for a moment…co-conspirators cloaked in lust and blood.
"You really hate him that much?" Dmitri asked.
Tatiana's smile was slow and razor sharp. "I don't hate him, darling. I just hate not having what's mine."
Dmitri downed the rest of his drink in one gulp and threw the glass across the room. It shattered against the wall, and the sound echoed like a final verdict.
"Then we strike soon," he said.
Tatiana moved toward him like a panther, grabbed the front of his pants, and pulled him into a kiss that was all fire and war.
In the shadows of the Morozov empire, betrayal wasn't whispered.
It was moaned.
Meanwhile…
Borya stood in his penthouse office, staring down at the surveillance report Lex had handed him an hour ago. His jaw twitched, fingers curling around the page.
Dmitri's apartment.
Last night.
Tatiana's car parked outside for three hours.
He closed the folder, tossed it aside, and leaned back in his chair, staring into nothing.
"She thinks I don't know," he muttered.
Lex, seated across from him, remained silent.
Borya's eyes turned cold, sharp.
"She thinks I don't see it. Them."
Lex finally spoke, voice calm. "What do you want to do?"
Borya smiled…but it wasn't nice.
"Let them plot," he said. "Let them fuck. Let them poison their wine with ambition."
He stood, the muscles of his shoulders rippling under the fabric of his black shirt as he moved toward the window.
"And when they make their move…" He paused, eyes glittering.
"I'll cut off their hands."
"You never loved him. Admit it."
The thunder outside cracked like a whip as Mikhail Morozov's voice echoed through the vast halls of their manor.
His wife, Valeriya, stood by the fireplace, her fingers white around the stem of her wine glass. "Don't be ridiculous."
"No," Mikhail stepped closer, jaw tight. "Don't lie. Not to me. Not after everything we've done."
Valeriya's silence was thick. Cold. She took a long sip from the glass before turning to face him, her silver-blonde hair perfectly coiled, her expression unreadable.
"I raised him," she said evenly. "Fed him. Sheltered him. Is that not enough for you?"
"You resented him," Mikhail growled. "You always have. You looked at him like he was a mistake instead of a boy desperate for affection."
Her lips twisted. "He was never meant to be mine. And we both know why."
That stopped him.
The storm raged louder beyond the stained glass, lightning flashing against the silk curtains. For a long moment, only the sound of their breath filled the room.
"You think I don't live with that guilt?" Mikhail said, voice low now. "You think I don't wonder what would've happened if she had stayed?"
"Then why didn't you go after her, Mikhail?" Valeriya hissed. "If she was your one true love? Why come back to me at all?"
"She disappeared!" he shouted, slamming his fist on the mantel. "Vanished without a trace! And when I found her again…when they told me she was dead.."
His voice cracked.
"...I mourned her. And then a year later, I got a letter from an orphanage. No name. No sender. Just one line: Take care of him. He's yours. And Borya…three years old, bruised, silent..was left on the steps of my estate like an afterthought."
Valeriya's eyes didn't soften.
"He was a ghost of her. Of what you lost. You wanted him to replace her."
"No." Mikhail stepped closer now, towering over her. "I wanted to protect him. But you…you turned your back on him from the start. You coddled Dmitri, spoiled Tatiana, and left him to the wolves."
Valeriya's gaze darkened.
"Because I knew what he'd become."
"And what's that?" Mikhail demanded.
"A monster, Mikhail!" she spat. "Don't you see it? His violence, his obsession with control, his coldness…he is not like the others. He was born to destroy."
"He was made to survive," Mikhail snapped. "Because we gave him no other choice."
Silence.
Heavy. Final.
The crackle of the fire was the only thing between them now.
Valeriya turned away, but not before her voice dropped like a knife.
"You should've let him stay in that orphanage."
Mikhail stared at her, his face drained of color. "You don't mean that."
"I do. And I always have."
For the first time in years, Mikhail felt something unfamiliar crawl up his spine.
Fear.
Not of his wife. Not of the lies they'd kept buried.
But of the storm their secrets had created…and the man it had forged.
Upstairs, in a sealed drawer in Mikhail's private study…
An old envelope.
Faded. Yellowed with time.
Inside, a single photograph of a woman with long golden hair..Borya's mother. And behind it… a birth certificate.
With one name circled in red ink.
"Borya Ivanovich Volkov. Father: Mikhail Morozov."
Just below it, scribbled in unfamiliar, trembling handwriting:
"Keep him safe. Or he will become what they fear."