Fahlada Worachai, a powerful, wealthy businesswoman with ties to the underground mafia, appears to have it all-money, power, and her adorable daughter.
Earn Sarikanya Vichitranonda, on the other hand, comes from a middle-class background. She's a po...
The sun had long set, casting a veil of darkness over the city, and as the skyline lit up with a thousand glittering lights, Lada stepped into her private elevator.
She had just finished a long day of negotiations, investments, and board meetings. But as the elevator descended to the lower levels of her penthouse, her mind was already shifting from the world of high finance to the one where shadows ruled-the world of the mafia.
Fahlada's fingers absently traced the sleek lines of her black suit. Beneath the designer fabrics, beneath the carefully constructed image of the powerful businesswoman, lay the remnants of the life she had never been able to escape-the inked symbols of her lineage.
Her dragon tattoo, a sprawling masterpiece in black and red ink, covered the expanse of her back. It was an intricate design that intertwined with her spine, representing her strength, her family's power, and the fire that burned within her.
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Her other tattoo, a serpent intertwined with peonies, curled seductively across her right hip, hidden beneath layers of fabric. The snake, a symbol of danger and wisdom, was wrapped within the delicate petals of the flower-a contradiction of beauty and peril.
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Fahlada had gotten those tattoos after her husband's disappearance, a symbol of the venom she now carried, a warning to the world that her compassion had limits and her vengeance knew no bounds.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing the basement of her penthouse, a place few had ever seen. Fahlada stepped into the room, her heels clicking against the cold concrete floor as she approached a sleek, black metal door embedded into the wall. With a quick scan of her retina and a press of her thumb against the biometric scanner, the door clicked open, revealing her personal armory.
Inside the gun cupboard, various firearms gleamed under the soft, recessed lighting. You name it, Fahlada have it! Pistols, rifles, shotguns, and more were meticulously arranged, each one representing a piece of her history and her skillset. Fahlada had been trained in the art of weaponry from a very young age, her father ensuring she could handle herself in a world where enemies could appear from anywhere.
