Viktor sat in the back of his luxury car—chauffeur-driven, of course. No autonomous vehicles for him. He needed control. Always.

  The news had hit like a sledgehammer. They had found his son’s body.

  A storm of emotions churned inside him—grief, rage, dread. How would he tell his wife their son was dead? How could he even form the words? His hand clenched into a fist on his knee, veins bulging.

  In the driver’s seat sat Mikey, the chauffeur. Beside him, Simon—an equally burly enforcer—sat silently. Mikey hadn’t heard the conversation when the corrupt cop on Viktor’s payroll had called, but he didn’t need to. The tension in his boss’s posture, the deadness in his eyes, said everything.

  Mikal was gone.

  They must have found the body.

  Mikey glanced at Simon. Their eyes met for a fleeting second—a silent exchange that spoke volumes.

  Simon turned to their boss, who sat hunched forward, head bowed, arms resting on his knees. His frame seemed to shrink in on itself, retreating into a fortress against the grief threatening to consume him. His face gave nothing away, yet the sorrow in the air was thick—an unspoken weight neither bodyguard dared disturb.

  They’d found the body too fast. Far too fast, Mikey thought. They’d only just left the warehouse. The body must have been inside it, or close by.

  How the hell had they missed it?

  Whoever had done this was as good as dead. Mikey knew Viktor would unleash the full force of his empire—his wealth, influence, and power—until the killer was found. And once they were, there would be suffering not just for them, but also for their loved ones.

  He needed to inform the others in the cartel. They’d have to tread carefully now, like walking on eggshells around a wounded beast.

  Viktor exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting to the bustling New York sidewalks beyond the tinted window. A young father walked hand in hand with his toddler, laughing, then planting a playful kiss on the child’s cheek.

  A memory surfaced—decades old but sharp as glass. The day he had finally held his own son, his heir. IVF had been a long, gruelling battle, but his wife had given him a wolf cub at last. The Wolf Pack—that’s what they called his syndicate. His son had been destined to lead it one day.

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  Had he failed him? Should he have steered him away from this life? Would it have made a difference?

  Even if he had tried, Mikal wouldn’t have listened. He carried the same violent instincts Viktor did. But unlike his father, Mikal enjoyed the bloodshed. For Viktor, violence was a tool—a means to an end. For Mikal, it was a pleasure.

  The car rolled past the father and child, and the moment was gone.

  Mikey rechecked the mirror. Tears had welled in Viktor’s eyes. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles twitched beneath his skin.

  Then, a blur.

  A pedestrian stepped into the street.

  Mikey slammed the brakes.

  The student—young, cocky, probably late for class—jerked back just in time, the car’s hood missing his knees by inches. Instead of counting himself lucky, he slammed his hands on the bonnet, unleashing a stream of expletives.

  On any other day, Viktor would have ignored him. Ordered the driver to keep going. Not worth the hassle.

  But today was no ordinary day.

  The grief simmering beneath his skin ruptured—raw, unfiltered rage.

  Before anyone could stop him, Viktor launched himself from the car.

  The student didn’t even have time to flinch before the first punch cracked against his jaw, sending him sprawling onto the hood. Viktor followed, gripping his collar, slamming him down again and again.

  Onlookers froze, faces locked in shock.

  Mikey and Simon jumped out, but Mikey threw an arm out, halting Simon long enough for a few more blows to land. Long enough for Viktor to bleed out some of that rage.

  Then he barked, “Stop him! Get him in the car!”

  Simon pried Viktor off the bloodied student as gently as possible and shoved him into the back seat.

  “Come on, Boss. It’s not worth it… We fly under the radar, yeah?” His voice was low, steady—an anchor to pull Viktor back from the edge.

  For a moment, Viktor just sat there, breathing hard, his knuckles white with violence. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod. He knew Simon was right. Hell, it was one of his own rules—the exact words he drilled into his men.

  Mikey circled the car and approached the student, dazed, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, but conscious.

  With calm precision, Mikey pulled out his wallet, thick with Viktor’s cash. He grabbed a handful of bills and let them fall over the kid like confetti. Then he crouched, his broad frame casting a dark shadow over the trembling boy.

  In a voice only the student could hear, he whispered:

  “That was Viktor Romanov. Look him up. If you value your life—and your family’s—you won’t report this. Take the money. And next time, watch your attitude.”

  The student nodded, eyes wide with terror.

  Mikey stood, turning to leave—then froze.

  A woman nearby was recording on her phone.

  Big mistake.

  In one swift motion, he snatched the device from her hand, deleted the footage, and handed it back with a glare that could split stone.

  He scanned the crowd. No other phones in sight. No one else dared.

  Satisfied, he returned to the driver’s seat and pulled away, like nothing had happened.