With the red blindfold over her eyes and pink handcuffs on her wrists, Alia lay in the darkness, feeling only Victor's body heat and the scent of his expensive cologne. Victor pressed her into the bed with all his might, like a hungry dragon devouring its prey. A strange mix of pain and electrifying shivers coursed through every vein in Alia's body.
Victor whispered into her ear:
"After tonight, you will no longer call yourself 'Alia.' You will be 'Victor's property.' Every breath you take, every thought you have, every dream you dream—all mine. Your rebellion, your tears—they will all end tonight."
Alia had lost the power to speak. Her lips trembled, but no sound escaped. She felt only Victor's fierce love and the overwhelming heat of his body. With every touch, Alia's body seemed to be remade—a new woman, completely subservient to Victor.
As Victor asserted his final dominance, the red ribbon over Alia's eyes felt like her own blood. Her hands, bound in pink handcuffs, reminded her that her freedom was irrevocably lost.
Eventually, all of Alia's resistance shattered. Her body went limp, her sobs subsided. She felt as though she was merging into Victor's very being. When Victor finally made Alia his own, the silence in the room was terrifying. This silence not only declared Victor's triumph but also marked the final farewell of Alia's self-respect.
Victor wrapped her in his arms. Alia's body was still trembling, but whether from fear or a strange intoxication, she couldn't tell. Victor felt the 'Dragon' within him calm. He had claimed his treasure.
Victor stroked Alia's damp hair and whispered:
"Sleep now, Alia. From this moment on, every one of your mornings will begin according to my will."
Alia lay with her eyes closed. In her mind, there was no Dimitri, no thoughts of revenge. Only Victor and his undeniable dominance. She knew that tonight had not just been Victor's victory over her body, but his ultimate conquest of her soul.Flashback: Shadows in the Photo Album
As Alia lay motionless against Victor's chest, her mind suddenly drifted into the past. The dark, suffocating room of the present transformed into the bright, sun-drenched drawing room of her childhood.
There they were, the three sisters—Alia, Sophia, and Lauren. They were so innocent then. Sophia and Lauren were giggling on the sofa, while Alia sat between them, caught in a playful moment. They wore beautiful frocks with colorful ribbons tied in their hair.
Standing right behind them was their older brother, holding an old-fashioned camera. He always protected them, but beneath that protection lay a stern, possessive authority that young Alia hadn't understood back then.
Peering through the lens at his sisters, the brother said:
"Don't move, any of you! I want this moment captured forever. You are my treasures, and my treasures can never leave my sight."
Nearby stood a young Victor and his two sisters. Even then, Victor was solemn, like a miniature mafia leader in the making. He watched the older brother's way of taking the photo with intense focus. Victor's two sisters were restless, eager to join Alia and her sisters in their games.
In the flashback, as the brother clicked the shutter, the sound of the camera echoed like the metallic snap of the handcuffs in the present. Alia realized in that moment that her entire life had been designed to be captured in the lens or the cage of an 'Alpha' male. That day it was her brother's camera; today, it was Victor's smartphone.
The image of that happy, young Alia seemed to mock the broken woman she had become. Their destiny was written in that very photograph a world where men rule and women remain beautiful prisoners.The Present:
As Alia rested her head on Victor's chest, lost in these memories, a single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. She felt that the picture her brother had taken all those years ago had finally been brought to life by Victor.
She surrendered herself completely to him. She finally understood that there was never a world where she could truly be free.Morning arrived. A sliver of light filtered through the heavy curtains, dimly lighting the room. Alia was wrapped only in a thin white bedsheet; after the devastating storm of the previous night, she had no clothes left. The marks of Victor's fingers were still visible on her pale shoulders. Victor lay beside her in a deep sleep the ' now looked calm, though his hand still rested possessively over her waist.
Alia stared blankly at the ceiling. Just then, a tiny sound drifted in from outside the door.
Her youngest child, one of the five, pushed the door open timidly. He had no idea of the horror that had transpired. He only saw his mother and "Uncle Victor" lying together. He walked up to the bed and tugged gently at Victor's sleeve.
In a sweet, tiny voice, he whispered:
"Papa... Papa, wake up. I'm so hungry... I want food."
The word 'Papa' made Alia's heart skip a beat. She looked at Victor in shock. Victor, the ruthless mafia leader with blood on his hands, was being called 'Papa' by this innocent child.
Victor's sleep broke. He opened his eyes. The child's call created a strange ripple in his chest. He sat up, adjusting the sheet to cover Alia's exposed form better, and then looked at the little boy.
The demonic intensity from last night was gone from Victor's eyes. He lifted the boy onto the bed. Looking at Alia briefly, he said in a deep but calm voice:
"Go, wash up. I'll arrange the food myself today. Let your mother rest; she's tired."
Alia watched in disbelief. The man who had blackmailed and crushed her last night was now speaking with such gentleness to her child. Was this duality what truly made Victor Alia remained lost in a deep, exhausted sleep. The storm from the night before had drained her completely. Victor silently rose, threw on a silk dressing gown, and led the youngest child toward the dining hall.
All five of Alia's children were seated at the massive table. Victor didn't call the servants; he personally prepared their breakfast with bread, jam, and milk. The Dragon seemed like a quiet patriarch today. The children were calling him "Papa," and he listened to their chatter with unexpected patience.
Suddenly, the heavy doors of the dining hall swung open. In walked a tall, imposing figure Alexander Petrov, Victor's father. He was the former Mafia Lord, a man whose name once paralyzed the underworld with fear.
Alexander leaned on his silver-headed cane, his sharp eyes scanning the scene. A twisted smirk played on his lips as he saw his son domesticating himself.
Alexander spoke in a booming, gravelly voice:
"So the rumors are true, Victor? My son has become a nanny to a widow and her five brats? The hand that should be holding a gun is now holding a glass of milk?"
Without looking up, Victor replied in a freezing tone:
"Everything I do is to protect my empire, Father. These children are now part of the Petrov legacy. And Alia... she belongs to me exclusively."
Alexander approached the table, looking at the children as if they were mere chess pieces. He placed a hand on Victor's shoulder and whispered:
"Remember, Victor, Mafia Lords do not rule through emotion. If you grow soft for this woman and her children, your enemies will use them as your greatest weakness. I won't see my legacy destroyed by a 'family drama'."
The children, frightened, huddled closer to Victor. Victor stood up, meeting his father's gaze head-on:
"I am not weak, Father. I am Morally.Grey I haven't just taken them in; I've caged them. My claim on Alia isn't emotion it's an obsession."
Alexander laughed, a sound as cold as ice. He realized his son had become a more dangerous predator than he ever was.Alexander Petrov walked away toward his room, realizing his son was no longer under his thumb. The dining hall was silent, save for the sound of the children eating.
But Victor's life isn't just confined to this table or Alia's bedroom. He is a terrifying Mafia Lord, but behind the scenes, he is a high-ranking, deep-cover agent for the FSB. Not even his father fully knows the extent of this double life.
As Victor took his final sip of coffee, his encrypted phone chimed. No name appeared, only a code. A call from the FSB.
Victor answered, his voice cold. A heavy voice spoke from the other end:
"Agent Petrov, President Yanukovych is summoning you immediately. Your presence is required at the Kremlin's secret bureau. A critical file has been leaked, and we want you to handle it in your 'unique way'."
A dark smirk played on Victor's lips. He runs the underworld and protects the highest levels of state security simultaneously. Men as powerful as Yanukovych know that when the law fails, Victor Petrov succeeds.
Tucking the phone away, Victor went to his private study. He knew that as soon as he left, Alia might try to escape again. He summoned his head of security:
"I'm going out. Alia is not to step a single foot outside her room. And the children must not be frightened. Remember, if anything goes wrong in my absence, the penalty is death."
Victor threw on his black leather jacket, checked the pistol tucked into his waistband, and looked out at the falling snow. He is Russia's greatest criminal and its greatest protector.
He chuckled to himself. Yanukovych was calling him to eliminate enemies of the state, but Victor knew his true obsession was the woman currently sleeping under a thin sheet in his bed.