Snowfall covered Moscow like powdered glass, silent and illusive . To any other person , it was a beautiful evening ,the kind that made the city's stone buildings gleam like frozen cathedrals. But to Natalia Ivan , beauty in Moscow was a pretense . Beneath the glittering exteriors lay blood, deadly secrets, and people who laughed and smiled while plotting your downfall.
Natalia tightened her wool coat as she crossed the frozen square. The wind clawed at her face, but she didn't care . She'd passed through far worse situations. Betrayal , exile, and the night she watched her father die in front of her, as she his held his hands while he took his last breath on a cold winter night . That was twelve years ago, and she'd promised herself one thing: never again would she belong to any man or mafia family.
She now ran her own security consultancy — legal by day, dangerous and scary by night. Her clients included diplomats, oligarchs, and, occasionally, those too powerful to list on paper. She kept her hands clean, but her past was etched to her memory, never being able to forget it.
Tonight, she was meeting one of those clients.
"Ms. Ivan," said a deep,dark voice behind her.
She turned. A man stepped from the shadow of the Hall , tall ,dark and sculpted like the Greek gods talked about in Greek mythologies . A gray wool coat framed his shoulders, and his gray eyes , cold and calculating ,seemed to read her soul. He looked like he was in his mid thirties, but the kind of thirty that had seen and knows so many untold secrets .
"Dmitri Volkov," she said evenly, recognizing him immediately . The name alone made men tremble and hesitate. Volkov , the heir to one of the most feared mafia dynasties in the whole of Russia
He inclined his head. "I appreciate your punctuality."
"I appreciate when meetings don't involve snipers," she replied dryly, eyes looking out at the rooftops.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "No snipers tonight. Merely a conversation."
She folded her arms. "Then speak, Volkov."
He took a step closer to her , the tension between them could be cut with a knife, "I have a small problem. Someone is selling information about my operations to our rivals. My brother is dead, my men are silent, and I don't trust anyone in my organization."
"Why tell me about it then?"
"Because you're the only one they can't buy." His gaze lingered. "And because I've been keeping an eye on you."
Natalia's pulse skipped. "That sounds like an obsession."
"Perhaps it is," he said softly. "But it's mutual, isn't it?"
Her heart stuttered, not from fear, but from the inconvenient spark that had ignited the moment she'd met his eyes. She masked it with sarcasm. "I don't do personal with clients."
"I'm not your client yet." He smiled faintly. "You haven't agreed to the job."
She hesitated. Working for a Volkov meant crossing a line she'd spent years avoiding. But curiosity , and something else which she couldn't decipher yet pressed her forward.
"Three weeks," Dmitri said. "Find me the traitor. Payment is triple your usual fee. And protection under my name."
"I don't need your protection."
He stepped closer until his breath warmed the winter air between them. "Everyone in Moscow needs protection, Natalia."
She hated that her body reacted , that his voice, low and dangerous, sent a tremor through her composure. "I'll consider it."
"Good." He brushed past her, murmuring, "I'll send you the files. And, Natalia — if someone tries to follow you tonight, don't hesitate to shoot."
Back at her apartment — a minimalist fortress on the outskirts of the city — Natalia poured herself a shot of vodka and sat by the window. The city looking breathtaking below, beautiful and cruel. Dmitri Volkov file arrived within few minutes: encrypted, detailed, and dripping with danger.
She looked through the photos , men in suits, warehouses, docks, a nightclub in St. Petersburg. Then one photo stopped her heart. The man beside Dimitri.
The man who murdered her father .
Alive.
She gripped the glass so hard it cracked in her hand, blood mingling with vodka on her palm. The killer ,Viktor Lebedev , had been reported dead years ago. Now here he was, smiling at Dimitri's side.
She whispered to the empty room, "You are a liar , Volkov."
But something inside her whispered back: or maybe he isn't aware.
Either way, she was accepting the job.
The next night, Natalia walked into the "dark room ," Dmitri's exclusive club in the Arbat district. The scent of leather, smoke, and expensive whiskey filled the air. Men in tailored suits watched her with the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with food. She ignored them and looked around for Dmitri.
He was by the balcony, drink in hand, looking like sin wrapped in power. When their eyes met, his mouth curved in a slight smile . He walked toward her slowly, every step controlled.
"You are here ," he said.
"I am here for answers."
"Then we want the same thing." He gestured for her to follow him to a private booth.
Inside, the dim light of the dark room painted half his face in shadow. "I can tell when someone is lying to me," Dmitri said. "So, let's skip the games."
"Fine." She leaned forward. "One of your men ,Viktor Lebedev , worked with the Morozov family years ago. My family. He murdered my father."
The name hit him like a blow. Dmitri's fingers tightened on his glass. "Viktor is… dead."
"No. He's alive. And is working for you."
He stared at her for a long time. "If that's true, I'll find him myself."
"No," she said coldly. "I'll find him. You just stay out of my way."
His eyes darkened. "You think I'll let you hunt one of my men alone?"
"I don't need permission."
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, two predators circling the same prey .
Then Dimitri leaned in, voice low. "You remind me of fire trapped in ice. Dangerous. Beautiful. You'll burn anyone who gets too close."
"Then keep your distance."
He smiled faintly. "I won't"
Over the next days, they worked together , reluctantly at first. She invaded his warehouses, hacked communications, and interrogated his lieutenants with ruthless precision. Dimitri watched, captivated . Every time she spoke, he studied her like a riddle he couldn't solve.
One evening, after an ambush at the docks left them both bleeding, they hid inside an abandoned factory. Natalia patched his shoulder while he watched her in silence.
"You're reckless," she muttered.
"And you're fearless," he replied.
She smirked. "Fearless doesn't mean stupid."
"I disagree." He caught her wrist, eyes locking on hers. "It means brave enough to want something even when it can destroy you."
She froze. "And what do you want, Dimitri?"
"You."
The word shattered the silence between them. The air turned thick. For a heartbeat, she let herself imagine it , warmth in his eyes, safety in his arms. Then she pulled back, jaw tight. "You don't even know me."
"I've known your name for twelve years," he said quietly. "Since the night your father was murdered . I was there, Natalia. I couldn't stop it."
She stared at him, cold horror washing over her. "You what?"
"I didn't murder him," he said quickly. "But I was part of the convoy. My father ordered it. I tried to warn yours, but I was too late."
The room spun. She stood abruptly, rage boiling up. "You were there , and you let me think Viktor did it!"
"Viktor pulled the trigger. But it was my family's war."
Her voice broke. "So why tell me now?"
"Because I'm done lying. You deserve the truth, even if it destroys what little trust we had."
She turned away, breathing hard. "We never had trust, Volkov."
He stood behind her, close enough that she felt his warmth. "Then let's start with honesty."
When she turned, he kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, raw, two broken people trying to silence the ghosts between them. She should have pushed him away, but instead she clutched his coat and kissed him back , hating herself for wanting him, craving the one man tied to her father's death.
When they finally broke apart, her voice trembled. "This doesn't change anything."
"No," Dimitri whispered. "It changes everything."