The Kovac stronghold was a fortress of shadows, its black marble halls steeped in the scent of blood and ambition. The late morning sun filtered through narrow windows, casting slanted beams that did little to warm the cold stone. Valentina Petrova stood in a private dining hall, a chamber of dark wood and gilded edges, where Dante's lieutenants gathered to break bread and plot wars. She was no longer bound, her wrists free of leather cuffs, but the bruises from Dante's grip lingered, a map of their violent dance. Her black silk dress, low-cut and clinging, was a deliberate choice—armor disguised as seduction, her waist-length black hair cascading like a weapon. Her green cat-like eyes scanned the room, noting every glance, every whisper, every crack in Dante's empire. She was a guest here, not a prisoner, and she played the part with a smirk that promised ruin.
Dante sat at the head of the table, his 6'4" frame dominating the space, his ice-blue eyes glinting with the cold precision of a man who ruled through fear. His black suit was tailored to his broad shoulders, the tattoos beneath his collar a silent testament to his kills. Mikhail stood at his side, his gray eyes avoiding Valentina's, his loyalty strained by the hunger she'd ignited in him days ago. The other lieutenants—hard men with scarred hands and harder gazes—watched her with a mix of lust and suspicion. She was Petrova blood, a ghost who'd risen from ashes, and they didn't trust her. Good. Trust was a weakness she'd exploit.
The heavy oak doors swung open, and a stranger entered, flanked by two of Dante's guards. He was a lean man, mid-thirties, with slicked-back hair and a suit that screamed Italian wealth—too flashy for Moscow's grim elegance. His dark eyes found Valentina immediately, lingering on her curves before settling on Dante. "Kovac," he said, his voice smooth but edged with arrogance. "I bring a message from Cain Vasiliev."
The room stilled, the air thickening with tension. Cain Vasiliev, heir to the Italian mafia, was a vulture circling Dante's empire, a man who mistook cruelty for strength. Dante leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a smile that was more a baring of teeth. "Speak," he said, his voice a low growl, the kind that preceded blood.
The envoy, undeterred, produced a sealed envelope, its wax stamped with the Vasiliev crest—a snake coiled around a dagger. "Cain offers peace," he said, his eyes flicking to Valentina again. "And a trade. He wants the Petrova girl. Name your price."
A ripple of murmurs swept through the lieutenants, their gazes darting between Dante and Valentina. Mikhail's hand twitched toward his gun, his jaw tight. Valentina's smirk deepened, her heart quickening—not with fear, but with opportunity. Cain's move was bold, reckless, exactly what she'd hoped for. She'd planted whispers in the underworld, subtle hints of her value, knowing they'd reach men like Cain. His resources—his men, his weapons, his routes—were pieces she needed for her game. And now, he'd played his hand.Dante laughed, a cold, sharp sound that cut through the room like a blade.
"Cain thinks he can buy what's mine?" he said, his voice dripping with mockery. He tossed the envelope onto the table, unopened, its wax seal cracking under his fingers. "Tell your master he's dreaming. Valentina stays."
The envoy's smile faltered, but he recovered, his gaze sliding to Valentina. "Cain thought you might say that," he said, stepping closer to her, ignoring the guards' warning glares. "But he believes the lady might have a say. Don't you, Ms. Petrova?" His tone was oily, his eyes hungry, as if he could charm her into betraying Dante.
Valentina tilted her head, her smirk slow and deliberate, a predator toying with prey. She rose from her seat, her movements fluid, the silk dress shifting to reveal a glimpse of thigh. The room's eyes followed her, but she felt only Dante's gaze, burning like ice against her skin. "Cain wants me?" she purred, stepping toward the envoy, her voice a velvet lure. "How… flattering." She stopped inches from him, close enough to smell his cologne—too sweet, too weak. "Tell me, what does your master offer a woman like me?"
The envoy's eyes widened, his confidence wavering under her intensity. "Freedom," he said, his voice softer now, almost earnest. "A place at his side. Power, wealth, anything you want."
Valentina laughed, the sound low and wicked, a blade slipping between ribs. "Freedom?" she said, her green eyes glinting with amusement. She leaned closer, her lips brushing the envoy's ear, her voice a whisper meant for him—and Dante. "I don't need saving, little man. But I'll take what Cain has. Tell him to try harder."
The envoy flushed, his hands twitching as if to touch her, but Dante's growl stopped him cold. "Enough," Dante snapped, rising from his chair, his presence a storm that sucked the air from the room. He crossed to Valentina in three strides, seizing her arm, his fingers digging into the bruises he'd left nights ago. "You play with fire, Petrova," he hissed, his voice low, meant for her alone. "Careful you don't burn."
Her smirk didn't falter. She turned into his grip, her body brushing his, her eyes locking onto his with a challenge that set his blood aflame. "Oh, Dante," she murmured, her voice a taunt, a promise. "I'm the fire." She let her hand graze his chest, her nails catching on his shirt, a deliberate provocation to stoke the jealousy she saw flickering in his ice-blue eyes.Dante's grip tightened, his scars burning under his skin. He wanted to crush her, to drag her to his bed and remind her who she belonged to. Her flirtation with the envoy was a blade in his chest, not because he believed she'd leave, but because she wielded her power so effortlessly. She was his, damn her, but she made him question it with every smirk, every word. He released her, shoving her back toward her seat, his eyes never leaving hers. "Sit," he commanded, his voice a blade unsheathed.Valentina obeyed, but her smirk said it was her choice, not his order. She sat, crossing her legs, the silk dress riding higher, drawing every eye in the room. The envoy, flustered, stammered, "Cain won't take no for an answer. He'll—""He'll die," Dante cut in, his voice cold, final. "Tell Cain to crawl back to his hole. And if he sends another dog to my house, I'll send him back in pieces." He nodded to his guards, who seized the envoy, dragging him toward the door. The man's protests echoed, then faded, swallowed by the stronghold's walls.
The lieutenants resumed their meal, but the air was thick with tension. Mikhail's gaze lingered on Valentina, his hunger veiled but not hidden. The others whispered, their distrust of her growing. Dante sat, his eyes fixed on her, his laughter from moments ago replaced by a storm of possession and rage. She'd played the envoy, played him, played them all, and he hated how much it thrilled him.
Valentina sipped her wine, her smirk hidden behind the glass. Cain's offer was a gift—she needed his resources, his men, his chaos to weaken Dante's enemies from within. Flirting with the envoy was a calculated move, not just to stoke Dante's jealousy but to send a message to Cain: she was a prize worth fighting for. She'd use his ambition, his lust, to get what she needed, then discard him like a spent bullet. And Dante—his jealousy was a lever she'd pull again and again, until his obsession consumed him.
As the meal ended, Dante stood, his hand brushing her shoulder as he passed, a silent warning. "Don't test me again," he murmured, his voice low, laced with heat. "You won't like the consequences."Valentina tilted her head, her smirk flashing like a blade. "Oh, Dante," she whispered, her voice a velvet promise. "I'm counting on them."
He left the room, his lieutenants trailing, but Mikhail lingered, his gray eyes meeting hers. She held his gaze, her smirk softening into something almost kind, a lure for the betrayal she'd cultivate later. The game was moving faster now, and Valentina Petrova was its master, her every move a step toward the throne she'd bleed for.