The air in the bar turned cold the moment reality set in. Alia, still trembling from the heat of Anashia's embrace and the salt of their shared tears, felt a sudden, sharp pang of terror. The face of Victor the man who owned the city and her lifeflashed in her mind like a warning siren.
With a sudden, desperate strength, Alia shoved herself away from Anashia. She stumbled back, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The warmth of his Korean whispers was replaced by the harsh, icy wind of her current reality.
She placed her trembling hands firmly against Anashia's chest, feeling his heart drumming wildly against his ribs. She clutched the fabric of his shirt, her knuckles white, as she sobbed into the space between them.
"We cannot do this, Anashia! We can never see each other again!" she cried out, her voice breaking. "Please, just leave... you have to go right now. You don't understand what Victor is. If he finds out you're breathing the same air as me, he won't just kill you—he'll erase your existence."
Anashia tried to reach for her again, his eyes pleading, but Alia kept her hands pressed hard against his chest, holding him at a distance.
"I'm not that girl anymore," she choked out through fresh tears. "That Alia died years ago. Look at me! My hands are stained with blood. I am a Mafia Queen, a murderer, the wife of a devil. Our world is gone, Anashia. Go back... save yourself while you still can."
Anashia grabbed her wrists, forcing her to feel how fast his heart was beating for her. He whispered, "I'm not afraid of dying, Alia. I'm only afraid of living without you."
Alia shook her head violently, her tears splashing onto his hands. "No! Not for me. Leave for your own sake. This... this has to be our final goodbye."
At that exact moment, the street outside the bar was flooded with a blinding light. A matte-black Mercedes screeched to a halt right in front of the entrance. The glare of the headlights pierced through the dusty glass door, illuminating the two lovers like targets.
Alia's heart stopped. She recognized the low, predatory hum of that engine. It was Victor.The timing was razor-sharp. Anashia Kim had vanished through the heavy velvet curtains of the back exit only seconds before the front door groaned open. Alia stood alone in the center of the dim bar, her lungs burning, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She didn't even have time to wash the salt of Anashia's tears from her skin.
She quickly grabbed a stray glass of vodka from the counter and downed it in one go, the burn masking the lump in her throat.
Then, the air shifted. The heavy, expensive scent of cedarwood and tobacco flooded the room. Victor stepped out of the black Mercedes and walked straight into the bar.
His boots clicked against the floor with a rhythmic, predatory precision. He didn't look like a man searching for his wife; he looked like a king inspecting a crime scene. He ignored the bartender and walked directly to Alia, leaning one arm on the counter beside her.
His eyes, cold and calculating, swept over her messy bun and her flushed face. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw with a touch that felt more like a threat than a caress.
"10:00 PM in a place like this, Alia?" Victor's voice was a low, dangerous purr. "Your eyes are bloodshot. Your hands are shaking. Tell me, did the gin make you cry, or was it something else?"
Alia forced her gaze to meet his, her "Silent Death" training kicking in. She wore a mask of bored exhaustion. "I needed to breathe, Victor. The mansion feels like a gilded cage today. I just wanted a drink away from your guards."
Victor didn't look away. He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and lit a cigarette, the flame reflecting in his dark pupils. He leaned in closer, his lips inches from her ear, inhaling deeply. He was looking for a scent—the lingering trace of Anashia's Korean cologne that still clung to her clothes.
"Funny," Victor whispered, blowing a cloud of smoke that masked his expression. "My men told me they saw a Korean boy entering this bar twenty minutes ago. And yet, I find my Queen sitting here alone, looking like she's just seen a ghost."
He gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him. His hand moved to the back of her neck, his fingers tightening slightly.
"You know the rules of my empire, Alia. I can forgive a murder, but I never forgive a lie.The air in the bar turned suffocating. Alia looked Victor straight in the eye, her face a mask of stone, though her soul was screaming. "No, Victor," she said, her voice steady and sharp. "You're hearing ghosts. I came here for silence, not a shadow."
Victor didn't look convinced. His eyes narrowed, glowing like a predator's in the dim light. He didn't yell; he didn't reach for his gun. Instead, he did something far more terrifying.
Slowly, deliberately, Victor slid his hand inside the collar of Alia's black shirt. His fingers brushed against her collarbone, his palm pressing lightly against the skin just above her heart. He wasn't looking for affection—he was looking for the truth.
He leaned in so close his stubble grazed her ear, his voice dropping to a haunting whisper:
"You say you are alone, Alia... but your heart is racing like a thief caught in the night. Why is your skin burning? Is this heat from the vodka... or is it the lingering warmth of someone else's touch?"
His hand moved deeper, his thumb tracing the pulse in her neck. Every beat of her heart was a confession she couldn't stop. Alia felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead. The scent of Anashia's cologne was still there, trapped between her skin and her shirt, and Victor's hand was right on top of it.
Victor's fingers brushed the dark love bite he had left on her neck that morning. He gripped her nape, forcing her to look at him.
"Remember this, Alia," he hissed, his eyes turning into voids of darkness. "This body belongs to my empire. I have sealed you as mine. If I find out another man has even breathed on your skin, I will tear his hands off at the wrists. And you... if you betray me, I will make sure those beautiful eyes of yours never see the light of day again."
He pulled his hand out and wiped it on his trousers as if cleaning off a stain, his gaze never leaving hers. Victor didn't wait for an answer. His grip on Alia's wrist was like a shackle of cold steel as he dragged her toward the back of the establishment. The bar staff lowered their heads, trembling; they knew that when Victor Petrov moved with that silent, focused rage, he was more dangerous than a loaded gun.He kicked the heavy oak door of the VIP suite shut. The room was draped in crimson velvet, smelling of expensive cigars and old secrets. With a sudden, powerful shove, Victor threw Alia onto the leather sofa.
Alia scrambled to sit up, her black shirt disheveled from the struggle, her breath hitching in her throat. Victor didn't yell. Instead, he slowly unbuttoned his cuffs and removed his watch—a signature move that signaled he was ready for violence.
He loomed over her, pinning her against the back of the sofa with his arms on either side of her head. He leaned in, inhaling sharply against the skin of her neck, his voice a low, vibrating snarl:
"Now tell me, Alia... why do I smell something foreign on you? It's expensive, it's floral, and it is most certainly not mine. Korean cologne, isn't it? Was he close to you? Did he touch what belongs to me?"
Alia realized there was nowhere left to hide. Victor's eyes were fixed on her collarbone. Right next to the dark mark he had left on her that morning was a faint, new reddening of the skin a friction burn from Anashia's desperate embrace.
Victor's eyes turned into obsidian voids. He pulled a sleek folding knife from his pocket, the blade flicking open with a lethal clack. He pressed the cold tip of the steel right against her throat, tilting her chin up.
"I made you a Queen, Alia. But if you use that power to stab me in the back, I will use this blade to carve the treason out of your heart. Tell me his name. Is he a ghost from your past, or a dead man walking?"
Alia shivered, the cold metal biting into her skin, but she didn't look away. She met his gaze with a defiant, tear-filled intensity.
"If you don't trust me, Victor, then finish it," she whispered, her voice a mix of fear and challenge. "Kill me now, or stop treating me like a prisoner."The tension in the VIP room reaches a dark, suffocating peak. Victor's jealousy is no longer just words; it has turned into a raw, physical display of power. He intends to reclaim what he believes is his, erasing any trace of the "ghost" that haunted Alia's eyes tonight.Victor didn't flinch at Alia's challenge. Instead, a slow, predatory grin spread across his face a look that promised a beautiful kind of destruction. Without a word, he dropped the knife and swept Alia off the sofa, lifting her into his arms with effortless, terrifying strength.
He carried her to the center of the room and sat her roughly on the edge of the heavy mahogany desk. Alia's breath hitched, her eyes wide as she felt the cold wood against her skin.
Victor stood between her knees, his presence looming like a dark cloud. With a steady, cold gaze fixed on her trembling lips, he reached down and unzipped his trousers, the metallic sound of the zipper echoing sharply in the silent room. Every movement was slow, deliberate, and designed to show her that she was completely under his thumb.
He leaned in, his hands gripping her waist so hard his knuckles turned white. His voice was a low, jagged rasp against her ear:
"Did you think you could stand before me with another man's scent on your skin and expect mercy? You are my Queen, Alia. And when a shadow falls over my territory, I burn it until only ash remains."
He grabbed the collar of her black shirt and yanked it down, exposing her shoulder the exact spot where she had leaned into Anashia's embrace. Victor didn't use words to claim her; he used his teeth, biting down hard on her shoulder, marking her with a ferocity that made her gasp in pain.
He was drowning out the memory of the Korean whispers with the harsh reality of Russian steel.
"Tonight," Victor hissed, his breath hot against her neck, "I will remind your body who it belongs to. Every time you think of him, you will feel the weight of me. You will never forget whose mark you carry."
Alia clutched his shoulders, her head falling back as she fought the urge to either scream or surrender to the dark intensity of the man who owned her life.