The Kovac stronghold was a fortress of secrets, its black marble corridors whispering of blood and betrayal, the air thick with the weight of unspoken grudges. In a shadowed alcove off the main hall, Irina Volynova stood, her amber eyes burning with venom as she watched Valentina Petrova glide through the room like a queen claiming her court. The grand hall was alive with the low hum of Dante's lieutenants, their voices a dull roar as they discussed territories and deals, but Irina saw only Valentina—her waist-length black hair catching the candlelight, her black silk dress clinging to curves that seemed carved to provoke. Valentina's green cat-like eyes swept the room, her smirk a blade that cut through every man's defenses, and Irina's fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass, the crystal creaking under her grip.
Irina was no stranger to power. At twenty-eight, she'd clawed her way into Dante's inner circle, her beauty and cunning making her his most trusted spy—and, once, his lover. Her blonde hair, cropped sharp at her jaw, framed a face that could charm or destroy, and her body, honed by years of espionage, was a weapon she'd wielded to keep Dante's attention. But that was before Valentina, before the Petrova ghost who'd stormed into the stronghold and stolen everything Irina had fought for. Dante's gaze, once hers, now followed Valentina like a predator tracking prey, and the memory of his hands—once bruising her skin—now marked another. Jealousy was a poison, and Irina drank it deep, its bitterness fueling her every thought.Valentina stood at Dante's side, her hand resting lightly on his arm, a possessive gesture that made Irina's stomach churn. Dante, towering at 6'4", was a monument of control, his black suit tailored to his broad shoulders, his ice-blue eyes glinting with the cold precision of a man who ruled through fear. The tattoos curling beneath his collar and the scars over his heart—secrets Irina once traced in the dark—were now Valentina's domain. The lieutenants hung on her every word, her defiance in the hall days ago earning their grudging respect. Mikhail, Dante's right-hand man, watched her too, his gray eyes heavy with unspoken hunger. Irina's lip curled. They were all fools, bewitched by a woman who'd burn their empire to ash.
Irina slipped from the alcove, her movements silent, a skill honed from years of spying in Moscow's underbelly. She'd seen Valentina's game—her smirks, her taunts, the way she twisted Dante's control into a noose. Irina wasn't blind; she knew Valentina was no trophy. She was a strategist, a predator, and every move she made was a step toward something larger. Irina's jealousy wasn't just personal—it was professional. Valentina threatened her place, her power, her survival. And so, in the dead of night, Irina had made a choice. She'd contacted a rival faction, a small but ambitious group in St. Petersburg, leaking minor intel—a shipment route, a safehouse location—testing the waters. If Dante's empire faltered, Valentina would fall with it, and Irina would reclaim what was hers.In the hall, Valentina felt Irina's gaze like a blade at her back. She didn't turn, didn't acknowledge it, but her smirk deepened, her senses attuned to every threat. She'd studied Dante's inner circle, mapping their loyalties and weaknesses, and Irina was a neon sign of danger—her amber eyes burning with hatred, her posture rigid with envy. Valentina recognized the poison in her, the kind that drove women to betray, to destroy. It was a weapon she could use, and she'd wield it with precision.
Dante leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a low growl meant for her alone. "You're drawing eyes again," he said, his hand tightening on her waist, possessive, warning. "Careful, Petrova. Not all of them are friendly."Valentina tilted her head, her green eyes meeting his, her smirk a challenge. "Let them look," she purred, her voice velvet over steel. "They'll see what you're afraid to admit." She let her fingers graze his chest, her nails catching on his shirt, a deliberate provocation. "I'm not your trophy, Dante. I'm your equal."
His jaw clenched, his scars burning under his skin, the memory of her defiance in the hall still raw. He wanted to drag her to his chamber, to punish her with his hands, his mouth, his knife. But her words struck deeper, a truth he couldn't deny. She wasn't his to control—not fully, not yet. And that made her dangerous, intoxicating, a fire he couldn't quench.Valentina stepped away, her movements fluid, drawing every eye in the room. She approached the table where the lieutenants sat, her smile calculated, disarming. "Viktor," she said, addressing the scarred lieutenant with a warmth that belied her intent, "tell me about the St. Petersburg routes. I hear they're… unreliable lately." Her tone was casual, but her eyes flicked to Irina, who stood at the room's edge, her wine glass trembling.Viktor grunted, his burned face twisting. "Routes are fine," he said, but his glance at Dante betrayed unease. "Some delays. Nothing we can't handle."
Valentina's smirk widened, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Delays?" she said, leaning closer, her dress dipping to reveal the bruises Dante had left. "Sounds like someone's talking to the wrong people." She let the words hang, her gaze sliding to Irina, subtle but deliberate, a seed of distrust planted in the fertile soil of Dante's paranoia.
Irina's face paled, her amber eyes narrowing. She stepped forward, her voice sharp, cutting through the room's hum. "Careful, Petrova," she said, her tone laced with venom. "Accusations like that get people killed."
Valentina turned, her smirk unshaken, her eyes locking onto Irina's. "Oh, Irina," she said, her voice a velvet blade, "I'm not accusing. I'm observing." She stepped closer, her presence a challenge, her words meant for Irina but loud enough for Dante to hear. "You've been… distracted lately. Late nights, private calls. A woman could wonder what keeps you so busy."
The room stilled, the lieutenants' eyes darting between the two women, the air thick with tension. Dante's gaze darkened, his hand twitching toward the knife at his belt. Irina's betrayal was minor, unproven, but Valentina's words were a spark in a powder keg. Mikhail shifted, his gray eyes on Irina now, his loyalty to Dante warring with his hunger for Valentina. The other lieutenants whispered, their distrust of Irina—a woman who'd once shared Dante's bed—flaring to life.Dante stepped forward, his presence a storm that silenced the room. "Enough," he said, his voice a command that brooked no argument. He seized Valentina's arm, his grip bruising, and pulled her toward the corridor. "You're playing a dangerous game," he growled, his ice-blue eyes boring into hers. "Irina's mine to handle."
Valentina's smirk didn't falter. "Is she?" she murmured, her voice low, taunting. "Or is she a snake you've let slither too close?" She leaned into his grip, her body brushing his, her breath warm against his jaw. "Jealousy's a poison, Dante. You should know—she's drowning in it."
He dragged her to his chamber, the door slamming shut, sealing them in their battlefield of silk and steel. He shoved her against the wall, his knife drawn in a flash, the blade pressed to her throat. "You think you can turn my people against me?" he snarled, his voice raw with rage, his scars burning with the memory of past betrayals. "You think you can play me?"
Valentina's eyes gleamed, her smirk a challenge that sank hooks into his soul. "I'm not playing you," she whispered, her voice a purr, her body arching into the blade, unafraid. "I'm showing you what you're too blind to see." A bead of blood welled where the knife pricked her skin, but she only laughed, low and wicked. "Irina's selling you out, Dante. And you're letting her because you're too busy wanting me."
His blood roared, his obsession with her defiance a fire he couldn't control. He wanted to cut her, to claim her, to silence her with his hands. But her words were a blade, cutting through his certainty, planting doubts that festered like poison. Irina's jealousy, her late nights—Valentina saw it, and she was using it, turning his own empire against him. He pressed the knife harder, blood trickling down her throat, but her smirk only deepened, her green eyes daring him to go further."
Poison," he growled, his lips grazing hers, his voice frayed with want. "You're the poison, Petrova."Her laugh was a blade, sharp and unyielding. "And you're drinking me down," she whispered, her lips brushing his, a taunt that ignited the air. "Careful, Dante. You might like it."
He kissed her, hard and brutal, a punishment for her defiance, a claim on her soul. The knife clattered to the floor, his hands bruising her hips, her arms, as he pressed himself against her. She didn't yield—she fought back, her nails clawing his neck, her teeth grazing his lip until blood mingled with their breath. It was a war, not love, and jealousy was its fuel, burning through them both.When he pulled back, breathless, her smirk was still there, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "Check Irina's phone," she murmured, her voice a velvet promise. "You'll see."
Dante stepped back, his chest heaving, his scars burning. He wanted to punish her, to own her, but she was slipping through his fingers, a storm he couldn't tame. As he left the chamber, her laughter followed, a sound that echoed in his bones. Jealousy was a poison, and Valentina was its master, weaving it into the cracks of his empire, one smirk at a time.