"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
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The evening air, thick with the lingering echoes of laughter and shared stories, wraps around me as I step from the restaurant. It hums with an electric pulse—an intangible energy that seems to cling to the atmosphere like a forgotten melody. My friends' faces flicker in the corners of my mind, their smiles soft and genuine, yet they feel distant, like fragments of a dream slipping away with the dawn. They are my anchors, the ones I should cherish, but instead, I find myself standing in the quiet aftermath of their affection, crushed beneath the weight of a truth they'll never know.
Guilt lingers in the recesses of my chest, a suffocating cloak draped heavily over my shoulders. It gnaws at me, wraps its tendrils around my heart with relentless precision, squeezing until every breath feels labored. A traitor to my friends—no, not just a traitor. I am a ghost, invisible in the truth I hide from them. Each lie I've woven, so carefully crafted, floats in the air like poison, a dark cloud I've sent their way to shield them from the abyss I live in. They cannot know, cannot bear the truth of who I am—of what I've become. The Mafia's pull runs through my veins like a poison, and the consequences of revealing myself would unravel their world. But no amount of justification could ease the sting of betrayal. It is a mask I wear, one I cannot discard, one that clings to my skin like an old, scarred wound.
I inhale deeply, the sharp scent of the city night filling my lungs, and force the thoughts away. I push them aside, burying them beneath a thin layer of defiance, of numbness. The cold bite of the evening air hits me as I stride toward the parking lot, the harsh, sterile lights casting long shadows across the rows of vehicles. The scent of oil and gasoline mingles in the air—a sharp reminder of the machines I've come to trust, the ones that hum beneath me with a power that's both dangerous and beautiful.
Ahead, my motorcycle waits, a sleek and vicious beast, its frame gleaming beneath the artificial lights. The engine's roar calls to me, and for a moment, it feels like the only thing that understands the turmoil within me. But then, a voice cuts through the stillness, a low murmur that seems to vibrate the very ground beneath me.
"Miss Federova."
His words, smooth as velvet, strike me with a force that stops my heart for a beat. The deep, familiar timbre wraps around me like an unexpected embrace—warm, but laced with an undercurrent I cannot quite grasp. I know this voice. I know the man who commands it. Yet the annoyance bubbling in my chest is immediate, unwelcome, and instinctive. I turn slowly, the familiar weight of the moment pressing down on me as I face him.
