[Moscow, Russia]
Matteo had always been good at what he did.
While others painted on canvases or defaced brick walls, Matteo etched his art into flesh. Skin was his medium. Pain was his currency. Every line he drew was deliberate, every movement calculated—steady hands guided by years of discipline and quiet rage.
Heavy rock music thundered through the tattoo parlor, bass rattling the walls and vibrating beneath his boots. The shop smelled of antiseptic, ink, and metal—comforting in a way only familiar danger could be. Matteo was bent over a client, another wannabe gangster who thought a tattoo made him untouchable.
The needle drilled into the man's bicep, the sharp buzz cutting through the music as black ink bloomed beneath pale skin. Matteo's hunter-dark eyes never wavered, locked onto his work as if the world around him had ceased to exist. He sat slouched on a worn rolling chair, posture relaxed but alert—like a predator at rest.
As the session stretched on, the music faded into the background. There was only the rhythm of the machine, the precision of his gloved hand, and the slow rise and fall of his breathing behind a black mask. Strands of jet-black hair slipped loose, brushing against his lashes as he leaned closer to inspect the ink.
Every movement was controlled. Every breath measured. The flex of his muscular, tattooed arm spoke of patience earned the hard way.
When the final line was complete, Matteo switched off the drill. Silence rushed in. He wiped the skin clean, studying his work with a critical eye before finally nodding to himself. Satisfied.
He rolled his chair back and peeled off his gloves, then tugged the mask from his face. Standing, his lean frame filled the space effortlessly—tight black short sleeves clinging to muscle, cargo pants hanging low on his hips. His arms were veined and solid, shaped by years of repetition and restraint.
Matteo's face was permanently set in a scowl, hair cut nearly as short as his temper. The waves at his bangs split naturally, framing sharp features that hinted at his South Korean heritage. Ink crept up his neck and down his arms, dark and intricate, complemented by silver piercings along his ears.
"All done," he said, voice rough, edged with amusement. A smug smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "What do you think? Pretty fucking awesome, huh?"
The man stood, admiring the viper coiled across his arm like a trophy. The tattoo was unmistakable—a symbol of allegiance. The mark of the Viper Gang.
The most lethal mafia in Russia.
Led by an even deadlier man.
Aleksander Ninkovic.
A name whispered more than spoken. A monster wrapped in human skin, known for his sadistic appetite for blood and violence. To wear the viper was to belong—or to die.
"Yeah," the man muttered, clearly pleased. "You did good, kid." His thick Russian accent bent the English words as he glanced back at Matteo. "How old did you say you were?"
"Twenty-four," Matteo replied flatly.
The man blinked, surprised. "You don't look Russian. What are you?"
Matteo's jaw tightened. What am I? I'm the guy who's about to shove my foot up your ass, dickhead.
Instead, Matteo forced a tight smile, teeth barely visible. "I'm the guy who decides how permanent that ink really is," he said coolly, eyes flicking to the fresh tattoo. "So I'd watch how you say your fucking words."
The man snorted, amused, but there was a flicker of something else in his gaze—caution. "Feisty," he muttered. "Didn't mean anything by it."
"People usually don't," Matteo replied. "Right before they do."
Before either of them could say another word, the front door creaked open—A shadow stretched across the floor, tall and imposing, carrying an aura so dense it felt like the air itself had shifted. The music seemed to dull. The room went still.
Something—someone—had entered. And every instinct Matteo possessed screamed one thing:
Danger.