He watched you run out of the room without another word, the sound of your hurried footsteps fading down the hallway.
With that....."You are gone"!
His eyes narrowed, jaw locking tight. At first, he was stunned—confused.
But then…
His expression twisted into something colder. His fists clenched under the sheets.
"Who was that call from? Why did she leave so suddenly?"
The sharp scent of antiseptic filled his lungs as nurses rushed in to check on him. He ignored them. His thoughts were already elsewhere—on you.
His voice was low, dangerous. "...F*ck."
As soon as he stormed out of the hospital room, the coldness in his eyes sharpened.
"Where is she?" he demanded.
The nurse flinched under his intense glare. "S-Sir, we don't know her. She just brought you here and left. We have no record… no name… nothing."
He froze. For a moment, his entire world went still. Then—
"FIND HER!"
He stormed out of the hospital, jaw tight, steps like thunder. The moment he got into his black SUV, the Lucien Black (PA) barely had time to speak before he barked:
But before the phone even rang, the city remembered a name it dared not whisper aloud.
••••••
They called him Alexander Volkov. A 28 Years Old Youngest mafia boss.
Not many dared to speak the name aloud — and those who did rarely lived to regret it.
He wasn't just a mafia boss. He was a ghost. A shadow in a suit. A myth stitched together with blood and silence.
Ruthless. Calculated. Cold.
Volkov didn't trust easily. His voice was like a scalpel — sharp, precise, and deadly. Born into crime. Raised by wolves. Built an empire where bullets were currency and loyalty was rare.
His enemies feared him.
His allies feared him more.
And his past?
He buried it with every man who tried to dig too deep.
•••••
"Call them. All of them."
The phone was on speaker.
"Boss?"
His voice was ice laced with fury.
"Find her."
"Who, Boss?"
"The girl who brought me to the hospital. I don't care how you do it—tap the CCTV, threaten the staff, burn this city if you have to—FIND HER."
> "Find the medical student who brought me here. I want her name, address, blood type—everything. Track her background. What university? Who are her friends? I want eyes everywhere."
Lucien blinked, stunned.
Her?
Not a traitor.
Not an enemy.
But her.
He'd seen Alexandra break bones for betrayal, raze businesses to the ground over a deal gone wrong — but never this.
Obsession.
Desperation.
Even Lucien, his personal assistant, the man who had stood by Alexandra through blood and bullets, had never seen him like this before.
His eyes glinted—not just with determination—but with something colder.
Obsession.
"If she runs again," he said, voice lowering, "Break whoever helps her."
He exhaled slowly, the sound sharp, like teeth grinding against each other. "Bring her to me alive. Unharmed. I want to see her face again."
There was silence on the other end. They had heard this tone before—calm, deadly, and absolutely unforgiving.
But this was different.
This was personal.
His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the leather seat, rage burning in his chest like wildfire.
"She disappeared," he muttered, more to himself. "No name. No records. Like a damn ghost…"
A beat passed, and then he slammed his fist into the dashboard, cracking it.
"I said FIND HER!" he roared, voice echoing like a storm.
"Y-Yes, sir!"
His men scrambled to obey, knowing that when the devil barked orders, failure wasn't an option—it was a death sentence.He muttered it under his breath, but it echoed in the room like a warning. The girl who had saved him… vanished. And that didn't sit right with him. Not one bit.
He disconnected.
Inside the car, Lucien sat behind the wheel, his hands resting on the steering wheel, watching Alexandra through the rear-view mirror. The air was thick, tense.
Silence followed.
Then, suddenly, Alexandra leaned back in his seat, head resting against the cold leather, staring out the tinted window. His voice, low and raw, almost whispered to himself:
Who was she?
Why did she help him?
And why the hell did it matter this much?
---
Weeks passed.
Over the days, he healed faster than most. His build was strong, but it wasn't just his body—his willpower was iron. Yet despite the excellent care he received, there was a void he couldn't ignore.
You.
One day–––
The silence in Alexander Volkov's office was suffocating.
The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, but the blinds were half-drawn, casting sharp shadows across the sleek, dimly lit room. The only sound was the ticking of an antique clock and the low hum of the air conditioning — though the air felt cold, almost unnaturally so.
He sat in his leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on nothing — yet seeing everything. A storm brewed behind those icy eyes. He was in his own thoughts——
The door creaked open.
A tall man stepped in, his head slightly bowed, voice hesitant.
"Boss… we still couldn't find her. No traces. It's like she vanished."
Silence.
Alexander didn't move.
The man swallowed hard, shifting nervously under the weight of that silence. Then—BANG!
Alexander's fist slammed into the table. The sharp crack echoed like a gunshot. His eyes, once blank, now burned with fury.
"You had one job," he growled,
his voice so cold it could freeze blood. "Find. Her."
The man took a step back. His legs trembled. He'd seen Alexander angry before — but this? This was something else. His obsession wasn't just dangerous. It was terrifying.
Alexander stood slowly, shadows dancing on his sharp features as he walked to the window.
He didn't turn around as he spoke again, voice lower, deadlier.
"I don't care if she's on the other side of the world or buried under it. You will find her. Or don't come back."
The man nodded quickly and left, practically stumbling out the door.
As it clicked shut behind him, Alexander whispered under his breath, barely audible,but the promise in it was lethal.
"Even if I have to burn down the entire city, I'll find you."