Tuesday at 2:14 a.m. smelled like burnt filter coffee and heavy-duty bleach. Alina stood behind the counter of Belle’s Diner, a rag in her right hand, staring at the fluorescent

A week later, the rainy season returned to the city.

Alina was heading home after a long day at the office. Victor had offered to have his driver take her, but she had insisted on taking a walk to clear her head. She loved the crisp autumn rain, and she wanted a moment to process how much her life had changed in such a short time.

She was walking down a well-lit street near her new apartment complex when a black van pulled up alongside the curb with screeching tires.

Before Alina could react, the side door flew open. Three men wearing ski masks rushed out, grabbing her arms and shoving a dark cloth over her mouth. The sharp, chemical smell of chloroform hit her lungs.

Alina fought back fiercely, kicking and biting, but the drug acted fast. Darkness quickly invaded her sight, and her body went completely limp.

An hour later, Victor was sitting at his desk reviewing financial reports when his private phone rang.

It was an unlisted number. Victor answered immediately. "Vance."

"Mr. Vance," a heavy Russian accent rasped through the speaker. "We have something that belongs to you."

Victor’s heart slammed against his ribs, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. "Who is this?"

"Your cousin Marcus made a very lucrative deal with us," the voice chuckled darkly. "We have your pretty assistant. Alina, is it? She’s currently resting in an abandoned shipyard at Pier 42."

Victor’s eyes turned to liquid ice. The air in his office became suffocatingly cold. "If you lay a single finger on her, I will slaughter every man in your organization."

"Save the speeches, Vance!" the Russian barked. "If you want her alive, come to Pier 42 in thirty minutes. Alone. No guards, no weapons. If we see a single one of your men, the girl dies."

The line went dead.

Victor stood up slowly. He didn't panic. He didn't yell. Instead, a quiet, terrifying calm settled over him—the rage of a sleeping dragon finally awakened.

He walked to a hidden wall safe behind his desk, unlocked it, and pulled out two custom silver-plated handguns. He loaded them with practiced precision, holstering them beneath his dark overcoat.

Then he pulled out his radio and called his chief of security, Leo.

"Leo," Victor said softly. "Marcus betrayed us to the Russians. He had Alina taken to Pier 42."

"Boss, I'll assemble the entire team right now—"

"No," Victor interrupted calmly. "They told me to come alone. I will go inside alone. You and twenty men will surround the perimeter. No one gets out alive tonight except Alina and me."

"Understood, Boss."

Ten minutes later, Victor arrived at Pier 42.

The rain was pouring hard, pounding against the rusted tin roof of the massive abandoned warehouse. Inside, the air smelled of salt, rust, and oil.

In the center of the vast, empty space, Alina was tied to a wooden chair under a single hanging lightbulb. Her hair was messy, and a bruise was forming on her cheek, but her eyes were open and clear.

Standing around her were eight heavily armed Russian mobsters. Standing on a raised platform above them was Marcus Vance, holding a glass of scotch, a triumphant grin on his face.

The heavy metal doors of the warehouse slowly creaked open.

Victor stepped inside. He wore his dark overcoat, his leather shoes clicking loudly against the concrete floor as he walked straight into the center of the trap, completely calm, completely unbothered by the eight rifles pointed directly at his chest.

"Victor!" Alina cried out, her voice filled with panic. "It’s a trap! Get out of here!"

Victor looked at her, his eyes softening for a second. "I told you, Alina. No harm will ever come to you while you are under my protection. I keep my promises."

"How romantic!" Marcus sneered from the platform, clapping his hands mockingly. "Look at the great Victor Vance, walking into a death trap for a cheap waitress!"