#####CHAPTER 2: ADRIAN

‎‎‎Peace has always been a stranger to me.

‎But that night, watching her from the edge of the rain, I almost believed it existed.

‎

‎Elena moved through the dimly lit street like a soft whisper against the noise of Moscow. The city breathed differently around her — slower, gentler, as if it too was caught in her gravity. Her laughter from earlier still echoed faintly in my mind, something light and human in a world that had long forgotten how to feel.

‎

‎I told myself I came here to watch. To make sure she was safe. That was the lie I repeated until it sounded like truth.

‎But deep down, I knew the reason I kept coming back: Elena Petrova reminded me of everything I’d buried — innocence, warmth, hope. All the things a man like me had no right to touch.

‎

‎She didn’t know me. She didn’t remember the night our worlds first collided.

‎But I did.

‎

‎Her father’s signature was still burned into my memory — shaky hands scrawling across a deal that would destroy him. I was a teenager then, already learning how easily loyalty could be bought and lives traded. He’d begged for mercy. My father had granted it… temporarily.

‎And when his time ran out, the debt became mine to claim.

‎

‎Only I never did. Because of her.

‎

‎The night her father died, I watched her cry behind a broken door, too small for the grief she carried. I told myself to walk away. I didn’t. I never really did.

‎Somewhere in the years that followed, watching her became habit — a quiet ritual that reminded me there was still something uncorrupted left in the world.

‎

‎But lately, it wasn’t peace she gave me. It was fire.

‎

‎I leaned back against the car seat, fingers tapping the steering wheel, the low hum of the engine vibrating under my palm. Across the street, her apartment window glowed soft and golden, framing her silhouette as she moved about her home. She was reading, I thought. She always did when the world outside grew too loud.

‎

‎My phone buzzed. Viktor’s name flashed on the screen again.

‎“Boss, we’ve got movement. The Italians—”

‎

‎“I said handle it.” My tone came out sharper than intended.

‎

‎There was a pause, then a low grunt of understanding. “You’re watching her again, aren’t you?”

‎

‎“Careful, Viktor.”

‎

‎He chuckled dryly before the line went dead.

‎

‎The rain thickened, drumming softly against the windshield. I turned the ignition off, letting silence settle like a second skin. For the first time in a long while, the world didn’t demand anything from me. It just… existed. And I, somehow, was part of it.

‎

‎Elena appeared again, moving toward the window. She pulled her hair into a loose bun, the movement slow, almost absentminded. The lamplight caught the curve of her neck, the delicate rise of her collarbone, and I felt something I didn’t want to name twist in my chest.

‎

‎I’d seen her bleed before.

‎I’d seen her father’s sins drown her family.

‎I’d seen her rise again — alone, unbroken.

‎

‎And yet, it wasn’t pity I felt. It was something darker, more dangerous. Something that made my hands clench against the steering wheel.

‎

‎I used to believe I could keep my distance. That I could guard her from the shadows and remain nothing more than a ghost in her story.

‎But ghosts don’t dream.

‎And I had started to.

‎

‎Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her — not the woman she was now, but the girl she used to be, standing barefoot in the snow, holding her father’s coat like a shield. She looked at me then the way people looked at death — with fear and quiet understanding.

‎

‎I hadn’t spoken to her since that night. But I never stopped watching.

‎

‎“Adrian Volkov,” my father’s voice echoed in my mind — cold, commanding. “Control is everything. Feelings are for the weak.”

‎

‎I used to believe him.

‎Now I wasn’t so sure.

‎

‎The door of her apartment opened suddenly. She stepped out onto the balcony, wrapped in a sweater too big for her frame. Her hair fell loose again, curling in the damp air. She tilted her head upward, letting the rain touch her skin.

‎

‎Something about that sight — her softness against the storm — made my throat tighten.

‎

‎She had no idea how fragile the peace around her was. How many men would kill for her blood if they ever learned who she truly was — what her father had once promised in exchange for power.

‎

‎I did what I always did when the memories threatened to choke me — I lit a cigarette. The flame flickered briefly, illuminating the scars on my knuckles. A lifetime of violence, etched into skin and silence.

‎

‎I took a drag, exhaled, and watched the smoke curl toward the rain.

‎

‎Maybe I was lying to myself again. Maybe I didn’t just want to protect her. Maybe I wanted to possess her — to pull her into the dark and make her understand what she did to me.

‎But what would be left of her if I did?

‎

‎She turned suddenly, eyes scanning the street below as if she sensed me there. The distance between us was no more than thirty meters, but it felt like a lifetime. For a heartbeat, I swore her gaze met mine — or maybe I just wanted it to.

‎

‎Then she shivered, drew the sweater tighter, and stepped back inside. The balcony light went out.

‎

‎And just like that, the night swallowed her again.

‎

‎I sat there for a long time after, listening to the rain, feeling the silence press against my ribs. Somewhere in the city, a deal was breaking, a shipment arriving, an empire shifting — but none of it mattered.

‎

‎Only she did.

‎

‎I remembered her voice once, faint and trembling, calling out for her father the night he died. I’d been there, standing in the hallway, gun still warm in my hand. It wasn’t me who pulled the trigger — but I’d watched it happen. I’d let it happen.

‎

‎That was the first and last time I’d ever seen her cry.

‎Now, years later, the memory still burned.

‎

‎I closed my eyes, resting my head against the seat. The rain had turned into a steady rhythm, soft and hypnotic. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a different life — one where I wasn’t my father’s son, where the world wasn’t built on blood and promises.

‎

‎In that life, maybe I could’ve walked up to her door, knocked, and said her name like it wasn’t a sin.

‎

‎“Elena.”

‎

‎It felt strange, saying it aloud. Too intimate. Too real.

‎

‎The sound of footsteps pulled me back to the present. Two of my men approached, their coats dripping, their faces pale under the streetlights.

‎

‎“Boss,” one of them said carefully. “You should go. It’s late. Someone might notice you here.”

‎

‎I looked at her window one last time. The curtains were drawn now, but I could still feel her presence — warm, alive, oblivious to the chaos that watched her from across the street.

‎

‎“Keep a man posted near her building,” I ordered. “Unseen. If anyone comes asking questions — anyone — I want to know first.”

‎

‎They nodded, disappearing into the rain.

‎

‎I stayed a little longer, until the cold crept through my coat and the smoke burned my throat. Then I started the car, the engine’s low growl breaking the silence.

‎

‎As I pulled away, I caught one last glimpse of her light flickering through the curtain. Something in me tightened — that familiar mix of ache and fury I’d never learned to control.

‎

‎Peace was a beautiful lie.

‎And I was the man who would ruin it.

‎

‎Because soon, the past she’d buried would come knocking.

‎And when it did —

‎I’d be the one standing at her door.