Tesmee stepped out of the penthouse, the soft click of her gold-strapped heels slicing the silence of the marble-floored hallway. Each step was a warning—an omen dressed in silk and steel.
The short, red dress clung to her thick, curvy figure like a lover refusing to let go, every line of it a rebellion against the night's dark intent. Her long black hair cascaded freely, a midnight waterfall down her back, crowned by the cold gleam of her black leather jacket. She was beauty sharpened into a weapon.
Outside, the night pulsed low and dangerous.
The procession of luxury cars pulled up—four black Rolls-Royces, hulking beasts in the dark, and a single black Bugatti at the rear, its engine purring with the smug confidence of a predator. The air smelled of gasoline, ambition, and the coming storm.
Tyric stepped out of the lead Rolls, the metallic glint of cufflinks catching in the moonlight as he adjusted his sleeves. His posture was rigid, but when his gaze caught her—
—he froze.
It was only a moment, but it was a moment that burned.
She moved like a force of nature in heels—something holy and hellish all at once.
He felt it in the clench of his jaw, the sudden thud in his chest. In the way the streetlights seemed to halo her figure in slow, golden strokes.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, a confession only the night heard. "She's gonna start a war before we even get there."
A slow smile ghosted across his face, rare and startling, a fracture in the hardened Volkov armor. The whiskey in his blood tugged at his restraint, softening the iron he usually wore in his veins.
When Tesmee reached him, Tyric stepped forward instinctively. His hand found hers—no hesitation, no ceremony.
A touch between kings.
"You certainly don't like peace," he murmured, his voice a low rumble stitched with something far more dangerous than amusement.
She tilted her head, her smile slow, deliberate—a blade sliding free of its sheath.
"I was born of chaos," she said, like it was a truth older than gods.
Tyric's laugh was soft, disbelieving, almost reverent. He opened the door for her without breaking eye contact, a silent acknowledgment that he was already lost—and had no intention of being found.
The car door shut behind them with a deep, final thud. The convoy rolled out into the night, a fleet of blackened wolves moving through the veins of Moscow toward the place where fate itself would tilt.
The grand estate rose like a dark cathedral against the skyline, its iron gates yawning open on silent hinges. The convoy slid to a synchronized halt—a choreographed show of wealth, power, and threat.
Guards stood posted like statues, their weapons naked in the floodlights, daring anyone to make a mistake.
One by one, mafia bosses emerged from their cars, cloaked in silence and dread. The world had taught them not to fear men like themselves.
But tonight, the world had sent them something else.
Tyric and Tesmee stepped out.
And the world changed.
Inside the estate's grand hall, the air itself recoiled.
The massive oak table at the center was a monument to old power, scarred by the decades it had survived. Around it, high-backed chairs groaned under the weight of men who ruled cities from the shadows.
Conversation strangled itself into silence as the double doors groaned open.
Heads turned.
Eyes widened.
Hearts forgot how to beat.
Every mafia boss in that room rose to their feet, not in respect—
—but in alarm.
The Volkovs were already a name carved in fear.
But Tesmee Michaelson was a myth given flesh. And her alliance with them meant one thing:
War.
The older bosses exchanged glances, silent calculations flashing like blades between them.
This wasn't an alliance.
It was a funeral procession, and they were already picking out their own graves.
Tyric moved with a quiet deadliness, pulling out a chair for Tesmee with the grace of a man honoring a queen crowned in blood and ruin.
She sat slowly, crossing one leg over the other in a motion so deliberate it felt like a shot fired.
Only after they were seated did the others dare to move, chairs scraping back into place like whispers of surrender.
The host—a scarred titan of a man—rose from the head of the table.
His eyes, pale and pitiless, swept across the gathered underworld and locked like iron onto Tyric.
He didn't smile.
He didn't blink.
He simply said, in a voice that seemed to echo off the bones of the walls:
"Moscow will not survive tonight."
And the room, the city, the very earth beneath them—
—held its breath.