Tap. Tap. Tap.
The heel of Rose Woods' boot struck the tiled floor in a steady rhythm—once, twice, a third time. Her foot bounced impatiently, as if trying to shake off the restlessness that clung to her like a second skin. Her fingers joined the beat, tapping against her thigh in a repetitive staccato. The air in the room felt sterile, manufactured, like the false calm of a hospital waiting room. It was dim—lit only by a single floor lamp in the corner, its light casting long shadows that crawled up the walls and pooled in the corners. Every surface gleamed unnaturally, the scent of lemon disinfectant thick in the air, suffocating and artificial.
Too clean. Too quiet. Too still.
She hated it.
Digging into the pocket of her leather jacket, Rose pulled out a piece of bubblegum, its wrapper crinkling in the silence like shattered glass. She peeled it slowly, savoring the disruption, and popped the gum into her mouth with exaggerated flair. The wrapper fluttered from her fingers and landed on the floor. She didn't even blink.
With a loud smack of her lips, she began to chew. Obnoxiously. Deliberately. The sound echoed faintly in the room like gunfire in a church. Her eyes flitted around the space—walls painted a washed-out beige, a heavy oak desk at one end of the room, a pair of uncomfortable-looking chairs upholstered in gray faux leather. A bookshelf stood neatly to one side, the books arranged with obsessive precision. No signs of life. No personal touches. No soul.
She leaned back in her chair and tilted her head, staring up at the ceiling tiles. Her mind drifted, unable to latch onto anything for long. Time blurred. Minutes, maybe hours, dragged by like sludge through a drain. She'd been brought here after being released from the holding cell. Not quite jail. Not quite free. They'd said someone else would be handling her case.
But instead of a courtroom or interrogation room, she got... this. A damn therapist's office. Or maybe a lawyer's private den. She didn't care.
She contemplated spitting the gum on the floor just to see if someone would lose their mind over it when the door creaked open.
Her head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing.
And then he walked in.
He was a man carved from the very definition of control. Dark tailored suit—midnight black, not a thread out of place. The jacket hugged broad shoulders, tapering at his waist with precision that screamed custom design. A crisp white shirt peeked from beneath, the top button undone, not from laziness but from calculated comfort. Black leather shoes that clicked softly against the tiles, polished to a mirror shine. He moved with quiet power, the kind that didn't need to shout to be respected.
His face was all sharp lines and cool detachment. Raven-black hair swept back from his forehead, not a strand out of place. His jawline was angular, almost cruel, and his lips were set in a firm, unreadable line. But it was his eyes that froze her for a split second—deep ocean blue, cold and bottomless, eyes that had seen blood and war and didn't flinch. Russian, without question.
He was the type of man your mother warned you about. The kind who could make a girl forget herself in the dark and regret it in the morning. The kind you didn't cross—unless you wanted to be ruined.
She smirked.
And then, without a second thought, she spit her gum onto the floor at his feet.
His jaw ticked, just once.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, like he was praying to every saint and sinner for patience.
"Pick your shit up," he said, voice low, measured, but threaded with iron.
Rose tilted her head, her smirk deepening.
"No," she said, sweet as sugar and sharp as broken glass.
He stepped forward, slowly, like a predator indulging the prey's last dance.
"No?" he echoed.
"No," she repeated, holding his gaze.
He took another step, now looming directly in front of her.
"Take your shit off the floor, Rose Woods."
Her name slid off his tongue like a blade. But she wasn't the kind to cower.
"You know," she said, standing with a languid stretch, her voice like honey laced with venom, "I prefer something more interesting."
His eyes narrowed. "Which is?"
She leaned in just a little, enough to be provocative. "Sucking your dick. You look like the kind of man who doesn't fuck the same woman twice. Am I wrong?"
The silence between them thickened. His expression didn't change, but something flickered in those eyes—a flicker of amusement, maybe disgust. Maybe both.
"We all dream," he said calmly. "But some dreams are best left unrealized. Yours included."
Rose snorted.
"Now pick up your trash and throw it out the window," he said.
With an exaggerated sigh, she crossed the room. The soles of her boots echoed with each step. She bent down, plucked the gum and wrapper from the floor, and opened the window. A cool breeze wafted in, stirring her hair.
She tossed the garbage out with a flick of her wrist.
"Aren't you afraid I'll jump?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
"We're on the second floor," he said, without even looking up from the file he had begun opening on the desk.
"Exactly. I'm not jumping to die. Just enough to get a cast."
"There are men stationed outside. You'd bounce off the pavement and land in cuffs."
She shrugged and returned to the chair, slouching into it with theatrical boredom.
He finally sat across from her. He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick manila file, flipping through the contents with practiced ease.
"So," she said, popping her gum again, "what are you? A therapist? A dirty fed? Porn star? Stripper?"
His mouth twitched, but his eyes remained on the papers.
"None of the above."
"Boring," she muttered.
"You stole drugs," he said without inflection.
"Ah, so that's what this is about," she mused. "I thought maybe you wanted to fuck the Cosa Nostra secrets out of me. Such a letdown."
"You smoked it. Then drove high and drunk."
"And?"
"Daddy didn't come to save you this time."
The smile faded slightly from her lips. "Yeah. The old man's tired of my shit. I think he even said something about selling me to the Bratva if I acted out again."
The man lifted a page from the file.
"Adopted daughter," he said. "You were sixteen. And if the rumors are true, you weren't his daughter in the way a father should be."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Rose stood, her hands curling into fists.
"Listen to me, you fuckboy. I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you better watch your goddamn mouth."
His eyes met hers. Unfazed.
"I see. So there are nerves to touch after all."
He slid a document across the desk.
She glanced down—and froze.
A contract.
Signed.
On one side: Salvatore Russo.
On the other: Nikolai Ivanov.
Her heart stumbled.
"What is this?"
"Your adoption contract has been terminated. Effective immediately. You belong to the Bratva now."
Her blood ran cold.
"You think I'm some thing to be passed around?"
"No. Not a thing. An investment. A liability. A debt."
She ripped the paper in half, her hands trembling.
He didn't blink.
"That was a copy. The original's already filed. Legal. Sealed."
Rose stepped back like she'd been struck. Her body shook with fury and disbelief.
He stood slowly and walked around the desk, stopping just in front of her.
His hand lifted to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched.
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Get used to your new reality, Rose. You're in my world now. And there are no exit signs."
He turned and walked away, the door clicking shut behind him.
She stood frozen in the middle of the room.
Betrayed. Bought.
And—for the first time in years—completely, terrifyingly out of control.