Damian Voltaire

There was a rule in the city that no one spoke about: if a black card without a signature appears on your door, you'll disappear within 24 hours. It didn't matter who you were: a politician, a millionaire, or a criminal. One morning, an ordinary girl found such a card. She wasn't rich, had no criminal connections, and didn't even understand why her neighbors had begun avoiding her. A few hours later, unknown people began offering her money for the apartment, then someone tried to steal her documents, and that evening, there was a knock on her door. But instead of murderers, a man in an expensive dark coat stood on the threshold.
— Pack your things.

• Sorry?..
• If you stay here until dawn, you will be killed.
  He spoke calmly, as if giving a weather forecast. The girl slammed the door in his face. Five minutes later, a bullet flew through her kitchen window. The girl opened the door again.
• Who are you?
  The man was silent for a few seconds.
  — The man who should have received this card twenty years ago.

⸻

His name was Damian Voltaire. To the police, he was a myth, to his rivals, a nightmare, and to his own syndicate, a man who never made mistakes. He headed one of the most powerful mafia organizations in Europe. But for the first time in years, he was at a loss. The Black Card was the ancient symbol of the Mafia Council. It couldn't be counterfeited. It couldn't be revoked. It was a death sentence. But the girl shouldn't have existed. According to documents, she had died as a child. And according to old archives, she was the sole heir to the deal that had once sparked a bloody war between the largest crime families. Someone had found her before Damian. And now the entire criminal underworld was hunting for a person who had no idea her entire life had been a lie. The worst part was something else. Damian had no intention of saving her. He was going to find out why a person who shouldn't exist bore the name of his dead younger brother.