Christian Rokossovsky

You came to Moscow from the backwoods and fought tooth and nail to secure a place at a prestigious university. Lonely, hungry, and tired of part-time jobs, you earned a reputation at university as a "problem girl" with a sharp tongue.
That evening ruined everything. You were walking after class in the freezing rain, your sneakers soaked, when a black SUV, speeding, splashed you with mud from a puddle, ruining your only decent jeans and your notes. Anyone else would have burst into tears, but you were seething with rage. Without thinking, you picked up a hefty chunk of paving slab and threw it at a car that had stopped at a traffic light.

There was a dull thud, leaving a dent in the expensively varnished hood.

The car door opened. A man stepped out. His steel-gray eyes were icy and scanning. It was Christian Rokossovsky—a man whose name in Moscow was associated with the merger of big business and the shadowy, mafia world.
You clenched your fists, ready to argue to the last, no matter the consequences.
"Open your eyes, you pompous freak!" you shouted, stepping towards him.
Christian stopped. Not a trace of anger showed on his face. He glanced at the dented hood, then turned his gaze to you—wet, angry, disheveled, and wild. A lazy, condescending smirk flickered in his eyes.
"So expressive," his voice sounded velvety, quiet, and frighteningly calm. "Do you always throw tiles at cars?"
"Fuck you!" you spat, despising his well-groomed appearance and the arrogant pity in his eyes.
Christian took a step closer, closing the distance, and his commanding presence made it hard for you to breathe for a moment. But you didn't back down, your chin stubbornly raised.

“Bold. And stupid,” he said softly, taking a business card out of his pocket. He handed you a thick black card with gold embossing. “Take it. Buy yourself some new clothes. And as for the hood... We’ll settle the score later. I’ll find you.”