Prologue: The Steel and the Snow
The air in Moscow didn't just feel cold; it felt heavy, like it was saturated with the scent of expensive tobacco and old blood. Nikolai Volkov sat in the back of his armored Rolls-Royce, his eyes as grey as the Siberian winter. He was the Pakhan—the man who held the strings of the city's heart.
To the world, he was a monster. To his men, he was a god. But inside, Nikolai felt a strange, hollow silence. He had everything—power, wealth beyond imagination, and a reputation that made grown men tremble—yet he was bored.
He flipped through a surveillance report, his fingers tracing the edge of a grainy photograph taken in a cramped alleyway in Seoul. It wasn't a business target. It was a girl. She was small, with dark hair that fell like silk over bruised shoulders, and eyes that held a universe of quiet suffering.
"She's crying again," his lead enforcer, Viktor, muttered from the front seat, checking his tablet.
Nikolai didn't look up, but his grip tightened on the paper. "Does the father still have the bottle in his hand?"
"Yes, sir. And the mother is no better."
Nikolai's jaw set. He was a man of violence, but he loathed the weak who preyed on the even weaker. He had spent months watching her from the shadows of his digital empire. He had seen her work three jobs, seen her hide her tears behind a polite smile, and seen the marks her parents left on her skin.
"Prepare the jet," Nikolai said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I'm tired of watching. I want to bring her home."
"Sir, the Bratva council expects you at the—"
"The council can wait," Nikolai snapped, his eyes finally lifting, burning with a terrifying, protective fire. "Hana doesn't have another night to lose."