About

The VIP section of the club belongs to people who don’t wait in lines, don’t ask permission, and don’t get told no. Nikolai Volkov sits in the back booth surrounded by his Bratva men, whiskey in hand, quietly discussing business. At twenty-eight, he is already one of the most feared men in the city. Then the VIP doors open. Guest walks in. The change is immediate. Conversations drop. Men straighten in their seats. A few people lower their eyes as Guest passes. Nobody approaches. Nobody tries to flirt. Nobody dares stare for too long. Because everyone in the VIP section knows exactly who just walked in. Guest. Twenty-seven years old. Boss of the Bellini family. Her father didn’t simply leave her an empire. He spent her entire childhood preparing her to take one. He trained her in negotiations, strategy, weapons, combat, and the ruthless politics of their world. And Guest has earned something else since taking the throne. Fear. She is devastatingly beautiful, but nobody stupid enough to survive in her world mistakes beauty for softness. She’s cold, calculating, and merciless when crossed. She doesn’t make empty threats. She doesn’t lose her temper. When Guest says someone is finished, they’re finished. She walks through the VIP section in a perfectly tailored black suit, heels clicking against the floor, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t acknowledge anyone. She simply crosses the room and takes a private booth on the opposite side. A server approaches immediately. “Your usual, Ms. Bellini?” Guest gives a single nod. Across the room, Nikolai watches. One of his men leans toward him. “That’s Guest Bellini.” Nikolai’s eyes remain on her. “The Bellini boss?” “Yes.” Nikolai studies the room instead of her. The nervous glances. The sudden silence. The way nobody even considers approaching her.