Chapter 8:
Viktor Volkov's Point of View
The air in Moscow was different—colder, sharper. It bit at the skin and coiled around the bones like a reminder of what it meant to be back in his own kingdom. But Viktor Volkov, patriarch of the Krasnaya Bratva, felt no comfort in returning to familiar terrain. Not this time. His mind wasn't in Russia. It was still trapped somewhere in a crumbling palace in Delhi, within a scent of jasmine and salt, inside the tremble of a girl's voice whispering, "Don't... don't touch me."
Anya Sharma.
The name alone sent a slow ache through his chest, an irritation he couldn't explain and didn't want to acknowledge. He had faced monsters and built empires, carved order from chaos, but nothing had disarmed him quite like her. Not her beauty—though it was formidable—but her fragility. That raw, trembling innocence, the way her wide, tear-brimmed eyes had looked at him not with hatred, but with terrified pleading. She wasn't trained in the arts of survival. She hadn't learned the elegance of duplicity or the knife's edge of power. She was untouched. Unspoiled.
And he had nearly ruined that.
She had been wearing green, that night. A shade that clung to her like envy itself, hugging her slender waist, falling like silk over her hips, the bodice sculpted against her chest like it had been designed by an artist who knew the peril of temptation. Her skin—golden and flushed—had glowed under the dim restroom lights, even through the tears. Her lips had trembled, soft and parted. Her eyes, framed by smeared kohl, had looked like bruised stars. And her voice—God, her voice. A breath of cracked porcelain.
He hadn't touched her. He hadn't taken. But he had wanted. That was the part that sickened him.
And now, two weeks later, he was still thinking about her.
Viktor sat in a black armchair in the center of his private chamber—what his men jokingly called "the vault." But it wasn't made of gold or guns or secrets. It was made of her. The walls were draped in rich red velvet, but they couldn't conceal what hung behind them: dozens of sketches, photographs, torn pages from news articles, all of Anya. Her face peeking out of a car window. Her profile laughing at something in a café. A grainy still from a surveillance camera outside the ballroom.
She looked different in every image. But the essence remained: soft, untouched, radiant with the kind of light that didn't belong in his world.
A half-finished charcoal sketch lay on the table before him—her body draped in that cursed green gown, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, caught between fear and wonder. His hand hovered over the paper. He couldn't finish it. He never could.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
Viktor didn't speak, didn't look up.
The door opened anyway.
Lev's voice came first. "We've started tracking her, boss. She hasn't gone far. She's staying at a friend's home, somewhere in Shimla. Moving quietly, trying not to be seen."
"Keep eyes on her," Viktor said without turning. "Nothing invasive. No approach. Not yet."
"She's changed her number. Closed all her social accounts. Keeps indoors. Looks like she's still in shock."
A pause.
Viktor finally turned. "Good."
Lev shifted, eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the walls. "You've filled more of the room."
"It keeps me focused."
Lev didn't reply. He didn't question. He was one of the few who understood that obsession, when wielded by a man like Viktor, could be as much a weapon as a weakness.
"I assume you didn't come here just to report that," Viktor added.
"No. There's more." Lev handed him a black folder. "We've had contact from the group that staged the takeover in Delhi. They're calling themselves Asphodel."
Viktor arched an eyebrow. "A poetic name."
"A false trail, most likely. Their methods are clean, efficient. High-tech. The gas, the video feeds, the financial signature—all orchestrated with military precision. They knew what they were doing."
He opened the folder. A printout of the intercepted message sat on top. "They're offering to continue Vikram's business arrangements—routes, weapons, the tech deals. No renegotiation. No threats."
"And yet," Viktor murmured, "they remain faceless."
"Worse," Lev said. "They're untraceable."
Viktor's eyes narrowed.
"We traced the signal," Lev continued. "It bounced through eight servers—Brazil, Sweden, Singapore, even a node in Antarctica, of all places. But the final IP address led us to... a child's gaming server in Romania. Nothing there but encrypted garbage."
Viktor's expression darkened.
Lev flipped another page. "We tried to backtrack from the financial transaction attached to the message. It came through a cryptocurrency wallet that doesn't exist on the public ledger. It was minted in real-time, spent, and then deleted—like it never existed."
"Ghosts," Viktor said. "Brilliant ones."
He stood, stepping closer to the wall, his eyes settling on one sketch in particular—Anya curled into herself on the restroom floor, drawn from memory alone. He traced the curve of her shoulder with a gloved finger, lost in thought.
"You think it's Rohan and Sia?" he asked.
"They were figureheads," Lev replied. "We suspect they were manipulated. Tools. The real architect is behind the curtain."
Viktor's eyes gleamed. "Then we tear down the curtain."
He stepped back, the adrenaline in his blood burning hot again—not like the drug, not like that shameful night, but with the promise of a hunt. A worthy enemy. A real game.
"Find them. Break every shadow they hide in."
Lev nodded, but hesitated before leaving. "And the girl?"
Viktor's gaze returned to the sketch.
"She remains untouched," he said flatly. "But don't lose her."
As Lev left, Viktor sat again, alone with the faces of his obsession and the ghosts of a battle yet to be
fought. A serpent had stolen his prey. Now, the wolf was stirring.
And he was hungry.
Write a comment ...