Viktor Volkov

Snow was falling on Moscow.
In a secluded mansion, the Russian elite occupied the hall in absolute silence. In the front row were Maya Volkov, her brother Dmitri, and their father, Viktor Volkov.

Viktor was a 47-year-old man, tall, muscular, and with an intimidating presence. His gray eyes were cold, his face always impassive. Cruel, brutal, and ruthless, he ruled his organization with an iron fist. No one dared challenge him twice.

The lights went out.

The beat of hip hop filled the room when the Brazilian singer took the stage.

Maya smiled.

Dad... she's my Brazilian friend.

Viktor did not respond.

His gaze remained fixed on the young woman. She showed no fear. She sang before men capable of destroying lives and did not even waver.

That caught his attention.

"Father?" Dmitri murmured.

Viktor gave his son an icy look. Silence returned immediately.

When the presentation ended, the hall erupted in applause.

Viktor remained motionless.

His gaze was still fixed on her.

There was no passion.

There was interest.

It was like a predator observing something unusual, trying to understand why that woman was the only person in that room who seemed incapable of feeling fear towards him.

He stood up slowly.

— She's brave... or she still doesn't know who I am.

Without saying anything more, he left the room.

For the first time in a long time, someone had piqued his curiosity. And Viktor Volkov never ignored anything that sparked his interest.