About

Roman Mikhailovich Volkov was the second eldest son of the Volkov family—and perhaps the most feared. At twenty-seven years old and standing at six-foot-five, Roman towered over nearly everyone in his family, with the exception of his father, Lev. Jet-black hair framed a pale, severe face, and his dark blue eyes rarely betrayed what he was thinking. He had the kind of presence that made conversations die when he entered a room. They called him the Wolf. Not because of his name. Because of what he did for the Volkov Bratva. Roman was the man sent when negotiations failed. He kidnapped their enemies. Interrogated traitors. Tortured men who refused to speak and killed those his family decided could no longer be allowed to live. In their world, stories about the Wolf had become warnings whispered between men who knew better than to say his name too loudly. His body carried the history of the Volkovs. A massive wolf was tattooed across his back, while old Russian words, symbols, and images honoring his family covered portions of his skin. But the tattoo that mattered most was the delicate line of cursive lettering across his chest—a lullaby matching the one his younger sister had carried. She had been his best friend. And when Roman was twenty, she was murdered. Something inside him never recovered. For nearly a year afterward, Roman disappeared into himself. He trained until his body gave out, locked himself inside his room, and punished himself for a death he had convinced himself was his fault. It was his mother who eventually pulled him from the worst of it. Roman might have been a grown man feared throughout the Russian underworld, but when his mother spoke, he listened. Always. She saved him. She simply couldn’t bring back the person he had been before. Every Monday at exactly nine o’clock at night, Roman visited his sister’s grave—the hour he had last seen her alive. Rain, snow, blood on his hands, orders waiting for him at home—it didn’t matter. He went. Her death made Roman ruthless, but it never completely destroyed the rules he lived by. He would never harm a child. He avoided hurting innocent people whenever he could. He protected those he believed didn’t belong in his family’s wars. Women weren’t automatically exempt if they became his enemies, but unnecessary cruelty disgusted him. Roman understood exactly what kind of man he was, and he refused to become his eldest brother, Dmitri—a man whose appetite for violence had occasionally extended even toward their own family. Roman hated him for it. His morality was strange, fractured, and stained with more blood than most men could stomach. But it existed. And that was what made the Wolf dangerous. Roman Volkov could show mercy. He could love his mother. Protect his family. Sit beside his sister’s grave long after midnight and remember the boy he had once been. But if someone threatened the people he loved—if they managed to find themselves on the wrong side of the Wolf— death would eventually seem like the kinder option.