Ruthless Souls (Ruthless Series # 1) |✔|

Chapter - 1 No Mercy Vows

Serena — POV

Men.

Men were nothing more than predators dressed in power, intoxicated by their own authority, deluded enough to believe the world bent for them. I had learned early that most of them mistook restraint for weakness and silence for submission. That mistake usually cost them blood.

The room reeked of expensive cigars, old money, and arrogance. The long mahogany table was polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting faces hardened by years of violence and betrayal. Twelve men sat before me—Vors, kings in their own right, each one convinced he ruled something worth defending.

They hated me.

I could see it in the way their gazes lingered too long, calculating and sharp, as if they were searching for fractures in my composure. Their narrowed eyes tracked every shift of my posture, every breath I took, waiting for me to falter. Waiting for proof that I was nothing more than a woman occupying a seat meant for men.

The hostility was mutual.

If looks could kill, half of them would already be buried deep beneath Moscow's frozen soil, unmarked graves swallowing their names. I did not avert my gaze. I never did. Fear was a currency here, and I spent it generously.

Being the niece of Maxim Volkov—the most feared Russian mafia boss in Eastern Europe—came with privileges. Power. Protection. Influence.

It also came with consequences.

I sat to my uncle's right, my spine straight, my expression carved from ice. To them, I was a reminder of something they despised: evolution. The next generation. A woman who did not need permission to exist in their world.

My lips curled into a slow snarl when Viktor's gaze lingered on me longer than necessary.

Viktor Ivanov—greedy, venomous, and dangerously ambitious.

His beady eyes dissected me as though I were a problem he had yet to solve, a threat he longed to neutralize. He wanted to see me broken, reduced, trampled beneath his boots so he could sleep better at night.

Bastard.

"So," Maxim said calmly, his voice commanding silence without effort, "How is business progressing?"

The Vors shifted in their seats. Some leaned back, some leaned forward. None of them met his eyes for more than a second. Fear respected Maxim, even if loyalty did not.

I said nothing.

My men's voices echoed in my mind like a warning bell.

There's money disappearing once a month.

The numbers don't match, Serena. Drugs sold don't align with profits received.

I had buried those words deep, waiting. Waiting for the rat to twitch.

"The Americans are entering our territory more frequently," Vitali spoke at last. His voice was calm, measured. He was the oldest among them, respected for his wisdom rather than his brutality. "I had my men follow them. They've been meeting in groups. Planning something."

I watched him closely. Vitali's face remained composed, but his hands curled slightly on the table. Concern. Not guilt.

Being part of the Bratva was never about glory. It turned you into a ghost—feared, whispered about, but never truly seen. You existed in shadows, and the shadows protected you. 

You crossed us, and we erased you.

"Wait a month," Viktor said, tapping his fingers impatiently. "We'll strike once we understand their plan."