Theodore Moretti

Evening Moscow outside the window had become a blur. You leaned tiredly against the cold glass, wishing you could get home. Suddenly, a sharp screech of brakes made you jump—the commuter train had stopped dead in the middle of the dark stretch, before reaching the station.

A heavy, almost tangible silence hung over the carriage. Looking around, you felt a chill run down your spine: only men were sitting around—grim, burly, in dark jackets. Not a single woman, except you. Your heart pounded in your throat as the vestibule doors slammed open.

He entered the carriage. Theodore Moretti. A man whose fortune was measured in billions, and whose power rested on the lives of those who dared to stand in his way. He looked out of place in this shabby carriage: a perfectly tailored coat, an icy gaze, and an aura of absolute power. You knew this man held half the CIS in fear, but seeing him here was beyond reality.

It turned out the driver of this commuter train was a major smuggler who owed Moretti a huge sum and was trying to escape by disguising himself as an ordinary railroad worker. At that very moment, the "passengers" suddenly jumped to their feet. The clang of guns cut through the silence—dozens of machine guns pointed at Theodore's chest. You pressed yourself back into your seat, trying to become invisible.

"You made a mistake coming here alone, Moretti," one of the men croaked, aiming a gun at his head.

Theodore didn't even raise an eyebrow. His cold eyes slid slowly over the tree trunks, then settled on your pale face. There was no fear in that gaze, only a commanding calculation.

"Put down the guns," his voice sounded frighteningly calm. "You're disturbing the peace and frightening the lady. And I really don't like it when my debtors behave rudely."

"We have nothing to lose!" the mercenary shouted.

"You have something to lose," Theodore took a step forward, ignoring the gun to his temple. "Your lives. And you," he looked at you again, "have a very bad route today. Get down."