The room smelled of leather, expensive cigars, and old money—a scent that clung to the air, mixing with the bitter tension. I stood perfectly still, as always, at the center of the cold, sterile meeting room. My eyes were fixed on Viktor Petrov, the leader of the Veil, but my mind was elsewhere—on the mission.
"You've done well for us, Seraphina," Viktor's voice cut through the silence, his deep baritone echoing off the walls. His gaze was sharp, colder than Siberian frost, a man who had survived betrayal and bloodshed far too many times to be anything but dangerous. His face, grizzled with age and scars, betrayed nothing. And that scar—a jagged line running across his left cheek—was a constant reminder of the price of survival in this world.
I remained silent, letting his words hang in the air. Silence was a weapon in this game. It was mine.
Viktor leaned back in his chair, and for a brief moment, I saw the faintest trace of something—perhaps amusement, perhaps satisfaction—flicker in his eyes. He reached for a file on the table, its cover a deep crimson red, as if it were a warning, a prelude to the blood that would soon follow.
He slid it across the table toward me, his fingers grazing the edge with deliberate slowness. "Rafael Antonov."
The name alone was enough to tighten the muscles in my chest.
I didn't speak. I didn't need to. I knew who Antonov was. Every person in the criminal world knew the name. Rafael Antonov. The king of the Russian mafia, a man whose rise to power had been marked by bloody massacres, brutal betrayals, and ruthless conquests. He was untouchable. The very definition of danger.
I opened the file slowly, a sense of cold precision settling into my bones. Inside was a photo of Antonov, his sharp features chiseled into something almost inhuman, his lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes—dark, predatory, as if he could see straight through to your soul—stared back at me from the photograph. But it wasn't just his eyes that caught my attention. It was the scar. A vicious, cruel mark across his throat that seemed to pulse with the weight of his violent past.
"He's the one," I muttered, the weight of the task settling on my shoulders like a lead cloak.
Viktor's lips twisted into a small, calculating smirk. "Yes. He's the one. And he won't be easy. He trusts no one—not even his own men. But we've made arrangements. You'll be placed in his path tonight."
I looked up from the file, my gaze locking with Viktor's. "How?"
"There's a gala," Viktor explained, his voice smooth, carrying a hint of something darker. "Private. Exclusive. Antonov will be there. His rivals will be too, watching for any weakness they can exploit. That's where you come in. We've arranged for you to be in attendance. You'll have your chance."
I nodded, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline. A party full of wealthy elites, their laughter and expensive clothes hiding the rot beneath the surface. A perfect place for an assassin to strike. I had no doubt about my ability to get close. What concerned me, though, was Viktor's tone, his air of expectation. This wasn't just any target. This was Rafael Antonov. And I had a sinking feeling that this mission wasn't as straightforward as it seemed.
Alexei Volkov, Viktor's second-in-command, stepped into the room, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his piercing dark eyes scanning the room with cold, calculating precision. He was everything I respected and feared—a man who carried the weight of violence as effortlessly as breathing.
"Everything's set," Alexei said, his voice as deep and steady as a mountain. "Security is tight. But we've made sure you'll have an opportunity."
I didn't speak. My focus was already on the task at hand. My thoughts had already shifted to the gala, to the target. The thrill of the hunt always calmed me, focused me. But something about this felt… off. It was as if there were more to this mission than Viktor or Alexei had let on.
"We'll be watching," Viktor said, his gaze sharp, knowing. "Make sure it's clean. We don't want any mistakes this time."
I didn't trust Viktor. Not fully. There was something more here, something hidden beneath his words. But I didn't ask. I wasn't paid to question. I was paid to kill.
Later That Night:
The gala was everything I expected—opulent, suffocating, a sea of decadent jewels and sharp smiles. It was a place where the powerful and the corrupt mingled, flaunting their wealth as if it meant something more than it did. But I wasn't here for them. I was here for Rafael Antonov.
I moved through the crowd, each step deliberate, my gaze never leaving the man who commanded the room. It wasn't just the way he stood—broad shoulders squared, head held high with that dangerous, almost regal air. It was the way the crowd parted around him, almost instinctively, as if the space he occupied was his by right.
And then there was his face.
Rafael Antonov was the kind of man who didn't just look dangerous—he was dangerous. His dark, almost black eyes were intense, like two bottomless pits, holding secrets and fire in equal measure. They were sharp, piercing, and when they flicked toward me from across the room, a jolt ran through my spine. He knew I was there. He was watching, studying, assessing, as if the very act of looking at me made him aware of every move I would make before I even made it. His gaze was predatory, but not in the typical way. It was almost like a challenge, a silent game of cat and mouse, and I didn't like how it made my pulse quicken.
His dark hair was messy in that way that made it look deliberate—neatly tousled, almost like he had just rolled out of bed after a long night. There was no mistaking the strength in his jawline, sharp and unforgiving, the kind of face you could imagine carved from stone if you were trying to build the perfect villain. A face that promised pain and pleasure in equal measure.
But what struck me most was the scar that marked him. It ran along his throat, jagged and cruel, a reminder of his violent past. The skin there was pale, almost ghostly against the tan of his face. It wasn't the kind of scar that made him look less beautiful—if anything, it only added to his allure, the rawness of it contrasting against the smoothness of his features. It made him look like a man who had seen the edge of death, danced with it, and survived to tell the tale. A man who could take what he wanted without blinking.
He was dressed in a simple black suit—nothing ostentatious, no flashy embellishments to speak of. It was tailored perfectly, hugging his broad shoulders and tapering down to fit his lean waist. It was the kind of clothing that didn't need to scream wealth because it radiated it. The dark fabric was like a second skin, and in it, he was the epitome of power and elegance.
I found my eyes lingering on his form, the way he moved through the crowd with ease, as though he were floating above them, untouchable. His presence consumed the space around him, magnetic, almost suffocating, and yet there was an undeniable charm in the way he carried himself. It wasn't arrogance; it was something darker, something unspoken. A quiet confidence that made it impossible to ignore him.
I couldn't help it. My heart beat a little faster in my chest.
And then he smiled. It was slight, almost imperceptible, but there it was—something in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes softened for a fraction of a second. It was as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, what I was feeling. The smile didn't reach his eyes, but it wasn't the cold smile of a predator—it was something more… dangerous.
There was something about him that made me feel alive, like the sharp edge of a blade against bare skin. Dangerous. Unpredictable.
For the first time in a long while, my body betrayed me. The assassin in me, the one who never flinched, never hesitated, paused.
Even I couldn't deny it. Rafael Antonov was… magnetic. His raw masculinity, the sheer intensity of him, was like a drug I could almost taste. It wasn't just that he was tall, broad-shouldered, or impossibly handsome—though he was all of those things—it was the way he made me feel. Power radiated from him like heat, the kind of heat that made you sweat under the collar, the kind that made your thoughts scatter and your heart race.
I swallowed the desire to step closer. To approach him.
But I didn't. I couldn't.
I was here for a mission, not to indulge in fantasies. And yet, the temptation lingered in the air, thick and suffocating. He was a man who could break me in a thousand ways without even trying, a man who could ruin me with nothing more than a glance. But the line I walked was too fine, and I couldn't afford to be distracted. Not yet.
As my gaze finally broke away from him, I moved deeper into the crowd, though the pulse of his presence seemed to follow me. His eyes never left me, and for reasons I couldn't quite understand, that knowledge sent a shiver down my spine.
I had a job to do.
But I wasn't sure if I was ready to face what came next. Not with a man like him in the room.