"I'm going to kill her…"
Viktor Morozov stalked across the living room like a predator trapped in a cage, the clock already pushing eleven at night.
The mansion was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that made anger echo louder.
He wore nothing but dark lounge pants, his bare skin glowing under the chandelier, and the massive fallen angel tattoo sprawled across his back looked almost alive whenever his muscles flexed.
He dragged a hand through his messy hair again, as if he could pull the rage out of his skull by force.
"I swear to God," he muttered, voice low and venomous, "I will find that woman even if I have to crawl through hell for it."
His heavy footsteps hit the marble floor like warning shots.
Each step was controlled, but the fury behind them wasn't.
The veins in his forearms stood out, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, and his grey eyes looked more like storm clouds than anything human.
He wasn't just angry.
He was insulted.
Humiliated.
And that was far worse.
Because Viktor Morozov didn't get embarrassed.
He ended people for less.
Yet here he was, pacing around like some pathetic man who'd just been cheated on, holding a book in his hand like it was a weapon he didn't know how to use.
The hardcover was red and white, glossy, mocking.
Across the front, bold letters screamed at him like a slap:
Falling in Love With the Mafia Don
The author's name sat right above it.
Victoria K.S.
Viktor's grip tightened until the cover creaked.
His lip curled.
"That fucking bitch…"
He didn't even need to open the book anymore.
He already knew what was inside.
Because it wasn't fiction.
It was his damn life.
His scars.
His tattoos.
Even the mole on his body that only a handful of women had ever seen.
She had described it all with sick accuracy, like she'd taken a ruler and traced every inch of him.
Worse, she'd written the male lead like she knew him personally.
Like she had lived inside his head.
Like she'd listened to his secrets and decided to sell them like cheap wine.
Viktor turned a few pages anyway, his eyes flicking over the words.
His stomach twisted.
There it was again.
That story.
The scar on his arm.
The deal in the U.S.
The gunfire.
The betrayal.
The exact moment he'd gotten cut.
Nobody should've known that.
Nobody except him.
And her.
His fingers trembled with rage as the memory hit him like a punch.
Three years ago;
A private island wedding.
Too much alcohol.
Too many lights.
Music loud enough to drown common sense.
He'd met her at the open bar.
She'd looked harmless at first, like some pretty tourist who didn't belong anywhere near his world.
But something about her had screamed trouble.
Not the obvious kind either.
The quiet kind.
The kind that smiled sweetly while holding a knife behind her back.
She'd introduced herself with a grin.
"Scarlet."
Even back then, he'd known it was probably bullshit.
But he hadn't cared.
Because she'd leaned closer and said, "Let's not talk about last names. Let's pretend we're nobodies for tonight."
Viktor had laughed at the time.
A real laugh, the kind he rarely gave anyone.
"A mystery woman, huh?"
She had lifted her glass. "Exactly. No questions. No baggage. Just drinks."
And he'd agreed.
Because for once, he wanted to forget he was Morozov royalty.
For once, he wanted to breathe without feeling blood on the air.
They had drunk like idiots, shot after shot, and her laughter had been sharp and reckless.
Then she had tilted her head, eyes glittering with curiosity, and asked him something that now made his skin crawl.
"Tell me something unbelievable."
Viktor had blinked at her, drunk enough to feel brave.
He'd leaned in and said it like it was a joke, like it was just another lie meant to impress a stranger.
"I'm a Mafia Don."
Scarlet had stared at him for two seconds.
Then she had snorted so hard she nearly choked on her drink.
"Oh my God," she wheezed, wiping at her eyes. "That's the best one I've heard all night."
Viktor could still see her face, the way she'd looked at him like he was some drunk idiot trying too hard.
And the thing was…
He couldn't even blame her.
Because who the hell would believe that?
It sounded like something a desperate man would say to get a woman into bed.
But it was the truth.
A truth he had heard his entire life until it stopped sounding ridiculous and started sounding like a curse.
He'd owned the title because he had no choice.
But that night?
That night he'd tried to wear it like a joke.
Scarlet had laughed.
Then she'd leaned in, close enough that he smelled her perfume mixed with whiskey.
"Well then, Mafia Don," she whispered, voice teasing, "tell me more."
And he had.
God help him, he had.
Because the drinks had burned his throat, the music had blurred his thoughts, and her eyes had made him feel like the world wasn't heavy for once.
One story turned into another.
She asked, he answered.
She smiled, he kept talking.
It was like she was collecting pieces of him without him realizing it.
And later, when they stumbled into her room, half-laughing, half-kissing, clothes already falling like they didn't matter…
She had still been asking questions.
"Where'd you get that scar?"
"Who taught you to fight?"
"What's the worst thing you've ever done?"
And Viktor, drunk and stupid and hungry, had answered like a man who'd forgotten how dangerous words could be.
At the time, it had felt harmless.
Just talk.
Just lust.
Just a one-night escape.
He had assumed she'd forget him by morning.
Or maybe she'd remember him the way people remembered good sex, nothing more.
But she hadn't forgotten.
No.
She had written him.
She had taken him apart and put him on paper.
And then she had sold him to the world.
Viktor's nostrils flared as he stared at the book again.
His name wasn't in it.
The male lead had some other name.
But it didn't matter.
Anyone with eyes could see it was him.
The Morozov heir.
The infamous don.
The man whispered about in dark corners.
He felt sick.
Not because of what she wrote.
But because of what it meant.
She knew too much.
And if she knew too much, then other people could learn too much too.
His family.
His enemies.
His rivals.
His sister.
Viktor's expression twisted like he was swallowing poison.
He found the book because his sister had been reading it.
His own fucking sister.
He could still hear her voice from earlier that evening, casual and innocent.
"Oh! Viktor! You should read this. The male lead is so hot. He's literally insane."
Viktor had frozen in the hallway.
"What?"
His sister had waved the book in the air, smiling. "It's trending everywhere."
Then she'd started reading lines out loud, laughing like it was entertainment.
And Viktor had snatched it from her hands so fast she'd yelped.
His eyes had skimmed one paragraph.
Then another.
Then his blood had turned into fire.
Now he sat on the leather couch, the book thrown beside him like a dead animal.
The leather squeaked under his weight.
His elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Above him, the chandelier's light made his torso look carved from stone.
But his face…
His face was pure murder.
Viktor let out a slow breath, then laughed under his breath.
Not a happy laugh.
The kind of laugh men made right before they pulled a trigger.
"This is unbelievable," he muttered. "This is a fucking joke."
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling like God might explain this mess.
But there was no explanation.
Only one truth.
Someone out there had turned him into a story.
And the worst part?
People were eating it up.
Viktor reached for his phone and dialed without hesitation.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then a voice answered immediately.
"Yes, boss?"
Viktor's eyes narrowed.
"Steve," he said, his voice calm now, but sharp enough to cut glass.
A pause.
"Yeah?"
Viktor leaned forward again, elbows on knees, fingers steepled as if he was deciding someone's fate.
His gaze dropped to the book.
To the author's name.
To the lie.
To the woman hiding behind it.
"Prepare the plane," Viktor ordered coldly.
Steve didn't question him.
"Understood."
Viktor's lips curled into something that wasn't a smile.
"We're visiting a friend," he added.
His eyes gleamed dark.
"And after that…"
He picked up the book again, flipping it open with slow disgust.
"We're hunting down a fucking author."
*
Meanwhile;
Averton City, Baltea;
The bedroom door groaned open like it hated being disturbed.
Thomas stepped in wearing a dark grey suit, crisp and sharp, like the world owed him respect.
The room smelled like stale coffee and late-night regret.
A song played softly in the background, Love is a Bitch by Two Feet, low enough to be ignored but loud enough to haunt the air.
Thomas sighed the moment he heard it.
"Of course," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
His eyes scanned the floor, but there was barely one.
Crumpled papers covered it like snow, and when he walked forward, they cracked beneath his shoes with every step.
He headed straight for the window.
One harsh pull, and the curtains flew open.
Sunlight flooded in, bright and cruel, exposing the room like it had just been caught committing a crime.
And on the bed, sprawled like a fallen queen who didn't care about the kingdom burning around her, was Scarlet.
Her blanket was twisted around her legs, hair wild, face buried in a pillow, and her body didn't move like she had any intention of returning to reality.
Thomas stared at her for a second. "What the hell am I going to do with you…" he mumbled.
He walked closer and tapped her arm with the back of his hand.
Not gently.
Not cruelly.
Just enough to remind her the world existed.
"Get up."
A groan came from under the blanket.
Scarlet shifted like a wounded animal, then snapped awake with instant irritation.
"What?!" she barked, shoving the pillow over her head like it was a shield.
The sunlight hit her like a slap, and she reacted like she wanted to punch it.
Thomas didn't flinch.
He tapped her again.
"Get up."
She didn't move.
Thomas checked his watch, unimpressed.
"It's seven. I have work. Dad's coming by."
Scarlet's head popped out from under the pillow, eyes half-open, eyeliner smudged like she'd been in a war.
"What is wrong with you?" she hissed. "I haven't slept a wink yet. Why the hell are you doing this?"
Thomas slipped his hands into his pockets.
His expression stayed calm, but his eyes said he'd been dealing with this nonsense for years. "Do you want him to see you like this?"
Scarlet's lips curled. "It's early as fuck. And I've been working all night. What slacking are you talking about?"
Thomas hummed like he believed her, but not enough to care.
"Mhm."
Then, slowly, like he was about to drop a bomb, he added, "But Dad doesn't know that."
Scarlet's brows twitched.
Thomas nodded toward the living room. "And there's still a box of your books out there."
The air shifted.
Scarlet froze.
Her sleepy expression evaporated like it never existed.
"What?" she whispered, suddenly awake.
Thomas's mouth curved into a small smile.
A smug one.
"Unless you want him to see it."
Scarlet launched herself off the bed like someone had lit the mattress on fire.
"Shit!"
She ran out of the room barefoot, hair flying, blanket still clinging to her like it was trying to save her dignity.
Thomas watched her sprint away.
Then he shook his head slowly, like he was watching a disaster unfold in real time.
"Unbelievable," he muttered.
And strolled out.