Damian Volkov's POV
I've walked into dozens of rooms like this—rich, glittering, dripping with blood and power.
And I've conquered every single one of them.
Tonight is no different. Until she crashes into me.
Literally.
A flash of red. A sting of cold wine against my chest. And then—her.
For a second, I don't even feel the stain soaking through my suit. All I can see is *
her—dark hair twisted into an elegant knot, skin like warm porcelain, lips parted in shock.
And her eyes.
Eyes like I've seen before—once. Years ago. In a courtyard under Sicilian moonlight, just before she slammed a fist into my nose.
Alina Moretti.
But no. That can't be her.
The Moretti girl was wild. Dirty knees. Fire-tongued. Bloodied fists and bitter threats.
This woman is composed. Stunning. Regal.
But then she opens her mouth. Sharp. Unapologetic. Bold.
And I know.
It's her.
Goddamn it.
"You've got an attitude," I say, testing her. Poking the old wolf with a stick.
She meets my gaze without flinching. "And you've got wine on your suit. We both lose."
Something stirs in me then—something cold and hot at the same time. I haven't felt it in years. Not even when I took my father's seat at the head of the Volkov syndicate. Not even when I watched my enemies bleed.
She turns tension into art.
My mouth curves before I can stop it. Not a smile—something darker. Admiration wrapped in warning.
And then him.
Luca Moretti.Her brother. Always so righteous. Always so predictable. He plants himself between us like a damn security detail. Like I'm the one who needs protecting.
"Step away from him," Luca growls.
But Alina doesn't move. Doesn't even blink.
I could laugh.
She's still a Moretti, but she's no one's pawn.
And that... unsettles me.
I'm not supposed to feel anything toward her. I've spent a lifetime hating her family. I've watched her father order hits, betray alliances, leave people broken and scattered in alleyways.
She's supposed to be the same.
But she isn't. Not exactly.
I say her name—her full name—and watch the recognition sink in. Her face tightens. Not with fear. But with something else.
Resentment. Memory. Maybe even curiosity.
We stare at each other across a minefield. One step in either direction and we're both dead.
And still... I can't look away.
"Until next time, Moretti," I say, turning before I forget myself completely.
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Back in my car, the silence is unbearable. I loosen my collar and stare out the window.
"She's different," I say aloud, mostly to myself.
Lev, my right-hand man, raises an eyebrow from the front seat. "Who?"
"Alina."
He stiffens. "The girl you were arguing with?"
"The girl I should've recognized the second she looked at me like she wanted to set me on fire."
"She's a Moretti," Lev warns. "You don't need to get tangled with that mess. Her blood runs red with betrayal."
I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes.
"She looked at me like she remembered."
Lev frowns. "Remembered what?"
I open my eyes again.
"Who we used to be."