Damian Volkov sat at a long steel table deep in the basement of a hidden warehouse. Around him, armed men discussed shipments, coded documents, and the constant flow of his underground empire—illegal trades, secret alliances, power that stretched beyond what anyone could see.
Beside him, his personal assistant, Marcus, scribbled notes. "The shipment from the east docks arrived this morning. No leaks. The Italians are pressing for a meeting, but I told them you'd only consider after—"
Damian raised his hand, cutting him off as his phone buzzed. The name flashing on the screen made his harsh expression soften for the first time all night.
"Mother."
He answered instantly, his voice lower, calmer. "Yes."
"Damian," her gentle voice floated through the line. "Come home. It's been too long since I've seen you."
A rare warmth flickered in his chest. "Of course. I'll be there."
He hung up, his jaw tightening again. His mother didn't know who he truly was. To her, he was the cold but brilliant CEO of Volkov Enterprises, a billionaire with an empire of steel and glass.
Only his grandfather knew the truth—that beneath the polished mask was the ruthless lord of the underground, shaped by blood and vengeance.
Damian's hand tightened on the glass before him, his thoughts turning dark. His father's face, the memory of that night—the game of hide and seek cut short by a gunshot.
He had been a boy then. But he was a man now. And he was still hunting.
Still waiting to bury his father's killer.
***
Elena stood outside her apartment for a long moment, leaning against the peeling door, her chest rising and falling as she tried to calm the storm inside her.
The night air was cool, yet sweat clung to her brow. The humiliation from the club, the rent hanging over her head, the bitter sting of rejection at work—it was too much.
She pressed her hand against her mouth, forcing herself not to cry again. Auntie can't see me like this. She's sick. I have to smile. Just smile.
Finally, she pushed the door open.
The warm smell of rice greeted her, faint but comforting. Her aunt was waiting at the tiny table, her frail frame hunched, her smile forced but full of love.
"Elena," she said softly, her voice raspy, "I made your favorite. It's not much, but…"
Elena's heart cracked. The food was simple—just rice with vegetables, probably made from scraps her aunt had hidden away—but it felt like a feast because it came from love she didn't deserve.
"Auntie…" Elena dropped her bag and rushed to her, kneeling at her side. "You shouldn't have. You're too tired—"
Her aunt reached out, brushing away a tear that had already escaped Elena's eye. "Hush. You've been working yourself sick for me. I can at least cook for you once in a while."
Elena tried to smile, but her lips trembled. She sat with her aunt, forcing down spoonfuls even as tears threatened to choke her.
Halfway through the meal, her aunt set her spoon down and stared at her. "You've been crying. Don't lie to me, child. Tell me. What happened?"
Elena broke. The words poured out—about the landlord's ultimatum, losing three jobs in one day, the disgusting shop owner, and finally, the manager at the club.
She sobbed, ashamed, as she confessed how he wanted to sell her for a night.
Her aunt's eyes filled with tears. She gripped Elena's hands tightly. "Oh, my sweet girl… I'm so sorry. I should be taking care of you, not the other way around."
Elena shook her head fiercely. "No. You're all I have. You raised me when I lost everything. I'll protect you, Auntie. I don't care what it takes."
They cried together, clinging to each other in the flickering glow of the single bulb above them.
***
The Volkov mansion gleamed under the moonlight, an old fortress of wealth and power. Damian stepped through the tall doors, his suit immaculate, his presence filling the grand hall.
"Damian!"
His mother, elegant and graceful despite the years, hurried forward. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing a kiss to his cheek like she always had since he was a boy.
For a moment, his cold heart softened. He held her briefly, allowing himself the rare comfort of her warmth.
From the corner, his grandfather chuckled, leaning on his cane. "Look at you two. The fearsome Damian Volkov reduced to his mother's little boy."
"Grandfather," Damian greeted with a smirk, moving to clasp the old man's shoulder. Respect ran deep between them, more than anyone else in the world.
They dined together, laughter and conversation flowing easily, a stark contrast to the man Damian was in the city's underworld. His mother fussed over his eating habits, while his grandfather teased him about his constant work.
Then, as the plates were cleared, his mother's eyes softened with seriousness.
"Damian," she said gently, "it's time you thought about your future. You're not a boy anymore. You need a good woman in your life. I want grandchildren. I want to see you happy."
The words were like ice against his skin. For a brief moment, a face flashed in his memory—Isabella Laurent, the girl he had once given his heart to as a teenager.
She had been his first love, his only soft dream… until he found her in the arms of another.
The betrayal had hardened him forever. Love, he had decided, was weakness.
He sipped his wine slowly, masking the storm inside. "Mother, I have no time for such things."
She sighed, shaking her head. "You're so much like your grandfather. But even he found love once. Don't shut yourself off forever."
His grandfather chuckled, though his sharp eyes gleamed knowingly. "Leave him be. Damian will choose when the time is right. Or fate will choose for him."
Damian pushed back his chair. "Dinner was good. But I have to go."
His mother kissed his cheek again before he left, her heart still full of unspoken wishes.