I barely made it three steps into the party before some whirlwind of hair, perfume, and attitude crashed into me, splashing a glass of red wine down the front of her black dress.

Versace.

Expensive.

I could tell without needing to ask—right before she opened her mouth and confirmed it.

She spun around on those ridiculous heels, eyes blazing.

"Are you blind or just born without a brain?" she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut skin.

She gestured wildly at the ruined dress like I’d just committed a war crime. "Do you even KNOW what you just did? This isn’t some cheap crap off a clearance rack—this is VERSACE, you imbecile!"

Then, under her breath, she hissed it—"Мудак."

Russian. Even better.

I tilted my head lazily, taking her in. The rage, the mess of it all. She was beautiful when she was furious.

"Porca miseria(fucksake)," I muttered, voice low and careless. "Calm down. I'll pay whatever it’s worth. Stop shouting.", without sparing her another glance, I turned and walked away.

The sound of her heels hammering after me echoed across the marble floors.

"EXCUSE ME?" she yelled.

I kept walking.

I didn’t bother sticking around to hear the rest of her tantrum.

Turned on my heel and walked away.

She wasn’t the type to let that slide.

"EXCUSE ME?" she shrieked after me, heels hammering against the marble floor like gunshots.

I almost smiled. Almost.

"Who do you think you are—Brad Pitt mixed with a clown?!" she yelled, chasing me. "Come back here, you oversized ego in designer shoes!"

"Let's go to the washroom and clean it up," I heard Marie say

"Fine," she grumbled.

I watched her stomp off toward the bathrooms, Marie following close behind.

Most guys would've left it at that.

Not me.

I waited a beat... then pushed the door open and slipped inside after them.

They didn’t notice me at first—too busy hissing at each other like angry cats.

"Do you want to know who crashed into you?" Marie whispered.

"Who?" Ashley snapped, dabbing furiously at the wine stain.

"Luca Romano," Marie said, eyes wide.

Ashley froze.

"Who?"

"You don't remember Luca Romano?" Marie hissed. "The new capo of the Italian mafia."

The color drained from Ashley’s face like a tide pulling back.

I leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, smirking as she turned to leave

I smiled.

Slow. Dangerous.

"You owe me a drink, tesoro(treasure)," I murmured, the corners of my mouth curling into a wolfish grin.

Back to why I came here

The Petrov handled it faster than I expected.

Too fast.

Three days later, the missing weapons turned up, the Sicilian rats squirmed back into their holes, and the Petrov were suddenly breathing easy again.

It didn’t sit right with me.

People don't just roll over without a fight.

Not in this business.

Not the Sicilians.

Something had forced their hand — something they hadn’t seen coming.

I dug around. Quietly.

Made a few calls.

Heard whispers.

Someone had gotten into their private servers.

Someone had ripped through encrypted files, exposed every dirty deal, every betrayal, every backdoor they thought was hidden.

It wasn’t just a hack.

It was surgical.

Precise.

Beautiful, in a way only real chaos can be.

And whoever pulled it off had teeth. Sharp ones.

I needed to find out who.

Because anyone who could gut the Sicilians that cleanly...

...could be a threat to me.

Or an asset.

The party was held at one of the French boss's mansions — all marble floors, gold chandeliers, and too much cologne in the air.

It was supposed to be a celebration.

Laughs, drinks, business deals whispered between fake smiles.

But I wasn’t here to toast anyone.

I was here to get answers.

I spotted Mr. Petrov near the long table stacked with champagne bottles, pretending to enjoy himself, pretending the last week hadn't nearly brought his family to ruin.

He saw me coming and stiffened immediately.

Smart man.

I didn’t bother with greetings.

No smile.

No handshake.

I stepped into his space, made sure he had no easy way to slip away.

Petrov "," I said, voice low and calm.

He gave a thin, nervous smile.

"Romano. Enjoying the party?"

"I'm not here for the party," I said flatly.

"I'm here for answers."

His fingers twitched on the stem of his champagne glass.

"Answers?"

"You cleaned up the Sicilian mess," I said. "Quicker than anyone expected. Quieter, too."

"I... had good help," he said cautiously.

"Help," I echoed, smiling just enough to show teeth.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Who?" I asked simply.

Voice soft.

Dangerous.

He glanced around, searching for a way out.

There wasn't one.

"You don't need to worry about it," he muttered.

Wrong answer.

I stepped closer, letting the threat soak into the space between us.

"If someone has the skills to hack the Sicilians," I said quietly, "they have the skills to be a weapon... or a liability."

Petrov ’s eyes darted around again — desperate, like a trapped animal.

I let my voice drop even lower.

"And I don’t like liabilities walking around unchecked. Not near my business."

He was sweating now, hand tightening around his glass until it nearly cracked.

I pressed harder, my tone turning almost bored — which made it more terrifying.

"So I'll ask you one last time, Petrov .

Who. Helped. You?"

Pavlov glanced around, like maybe someone would save him.

They wouldn’t.

"You don’t want me hunting blind, Pavlov," I said, soft and dangerous. "I don’t stop when I start."

Still, he said nothing.

Just gripped his glass tighter until it almost shattered in his hand.

Coward. Or protector.

Didn’t matter.

He refused to answer.

I gave him a cold smile.

"Three days," I murmured. "After that, no mercy."

I turned away, disgusted

Going towards the bar, I flicked my fingers — a sharp signal.

Within seconds, Adrian — my second-in-command — appeared at my side.

Sharp suit, colder eyes.

He didn’t ask questions. He knew better.

"That girl," I murmured, tilting my chin subtly toward Ashley. "Find out who she is."

Adrian followed my gaze, studying her like a wolf sizing up prey.

"The brat who threw wine on you?" he asked, amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth.

I didn’t smile.

This wasn’t funny.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "But she’s more than a brat."

He nodded once, already understanding.

"And Adrian," I added, voice dropping even lower, "be quick."

His mouth twitched — something close to a smirk.

"When am I not?"

He slipped into the crowd, invisible, leaving me alone with the weight of what I was starting to suspect.

Ashley Petrov

Daughter of the man who wouldn't answer me.

The brat who cried over Versace.