The woman beneath him was beautiful in the way expensive things were beautiful polished, perfect, and utterly replaceable. Her back arched against the silk sheets of his penthouse, her painted nails leaving crescent marks on his shoulders, her moans a practiced symphony of pleasure.
Viktor fucked her with the same detached efficiency he brought to everything else. His body was engaged, his rhythm steady, but his mind was elsewhere. It was always elsewhere. Pleasure was a tool, not a destination a way to release pressure, to maintain the illusion of humanity, to keep the animal in its cage.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He ignored it. It buzzed again. Then a third time.
The woman Maria? Marta? Something with an M-whimpered in frustration as he pulled away, reaching for the device. He held up a hand, silencing her complaint before it could form.
"Talk," he said into the phone, his accent a velvet blade Russian, refined by years of international business, sharpened by violence.
"It's Moreau." The voice on the other end was one of his lieutenants, tense with barely contained panic. "He's stepping back. Handing over control. The whole city's talking about it."
Viktor went very still. The woman beneath him shifted, confused, but he didn't acknowledge her existence.
"Say that again."
"Moreau is dismantling his operation. Slowly, quietly, but it's happening. He's training successors, liquidating assets, pulling back from deals he's held for years. Word is... word is it's because of a boy."
A laugh tore from Viktor's throat genuine, surprised, utterly cold. "A boy? Damian Moreau is destroying his empire for a piece of ass?"
"I don't know the details, boss. Just what the street's saying."
Viktor was already moving, pulling away from the woman completely. She made a noise of protest, and he silenced her with a look just a look, no words, no gesture. She shrank back into the pillows, suddenly remembering exactly who she was in bed with.
"Get me everything," Viktor ordered. "Names, locations, timelines. I want to know who this boy is, how long this has been going on, and exactly how far gone my old friend really is."
"Yes, boss."
The line went dead. Viktor set the phone down and turned back to the woman. She was watching him with wide, uncertain eyes, her body still flushed with arousal, her mind finally catching up to the danger in the room.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to..."
"Shh." Viktor cupped her face, his touch almost tender. "You've done nothing wrong. But I'm afraid our time is cut short. Business calls."
He kissed her deep, thorough, a promise of what she wouldn't be getting. When he pulled back, she was breathless again, confused again, completely under his control.
"My driver will take you home," he said, already reaching for his pants. "Someone will call about the charity donation. You'll be well compensated for your... time."
She opened her mouth to argue, to protest, to try and hold onto whatever fantasy she'd been building. One look at his face stopped her cold. She gathered her things and fled, the door closing softly behind her.
Viktor stood at the window, naked and unashamed, looking out at the city lights. Moscow spread beneath him, cold and beautiful and full of prey. But his mind was elsewhere in whatever city Damian had crawled to, with whatever boy had somehow undone twenty years of ruthless control.
Damien Moreau. His oldest friend. His only equal. The one man Viktor had never been able to break, to beat, to own.
And now Damian was breaking himself. For love. For some fucking boy.
The thought made Viktor's lip curl. Not with disgust with interest. If Damian was weak, if Damian could be moved by something as pathetic as emotion, then Damian could be replaced. His territory could be claimed. His empire could be absorbed.
And this boy this mysterious, world-changing boy could be the key.
Viktor smiled. It was not a nice smile.
"Find him," he murmured to the empty room. "Find them both. And let's see how deep this little love story really goes."
Three days later, Viktor sat in a private jet, a file open on his lap. The photo paperclipped to the first page showed a young man with dark hair and defiant eyes. Jace Carter. Twenty-three. Former student, former debtor, current... what? Captive? Lover? Partner?
The file was incomplete Damian had covered his tracks well but Viktor had pieced together enough. The debt. The contract. The gala incident. The sudden disappearance of Luca Moreau, Damian's pathetic cousin, who had apparently fled to Mexico with enough cash to start a new life.
And now, the quiet. The withdrawal. The rumors of Damian stepping back, letting go, becoming soft.
Viktor closed the file and looked out the window at the clouds. His hand drifted to his phone, pulling up a familiar number. He didn't call not yet. But he typed a message, let it sit in drafts, a promise waiting to be delivered.
Damian. Old friend. I hear you've found something worth keeping. I'd like to meet them. And you. Before you throw away everything we built.
He smiled again, that cold, hungry smile.
Because Viktor Volkov didn't believe in love. He believed in leverage. And Jace Carter whoever he was, whatever he meant to Damian was about to become the most valuable leverage Viktor had ever held.
The jet hummed onward, carrying him toward whatever chaos awaited. Viktor settled back in his seat, already bored with the flight, already imagining the look on Damian's face when he realized that walking away wasn't an option.
Not while Viktor was still playing.
Later That Night – Somewhere in the City
The club was loud, dark, and full of beautiful people trying to forget their miserable lives. Viktor sat in a VIP booth, a glass of vodka in his hand, watching the crowd with the patience of a predator.
A woman approached blonde, confident, clearly used to getting what she wanted. She slid into the booth beside him, her thigh pressing against his.
"Buy me a drink?" she purred.
Viktor looked at her. Truly looked, the way a wolf looks at a rabbit that's wandered too close.
"I don't buy drinks," he said. "I buy souls. And yours, I suspect, is already spoken for."
She blinked, confused, her practiced seduction stumbling against something she didn't understand. Before she could recover, Viktor's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen a name he'd been waiting for.
He answered without greeting, his eyes never leaving the woman's face.
"Report."
The voice on the other end was rough, professional. "Found them. The house in the hills. Security is tight but not impossible. And the boy... he's still there. Still alive. Still apparently... willing."
Viktor's smile widened. The woman in the booth shifted uncomfortably, suddenly desperate to leave.
"Good," Viktor murmured. "Prepare a team. Nothing aggressive not yet. I want to observe. I want to understand." He paused, his eyes glittering in the club's strobing lights. "I want to know exactly what Damian Moreau sees when he looks at this boy."
He ended the call and finally turned his full attention to the woman. She was frozen, caught in his gaze like a deer in headlights.
"You're still here," he observed.
"I... I should go." She scrambled out of the booth, nearly tripping in her heels.
"Yes," Viktor agreed, already forgetting her. "You should."
He drained his glass and stood, straightening his jacket. The night was young, and there was work to do. Somewhere in those hills, his oldest friend was playing house with a boy who had somehow broken him.
Viktor intended to find out why.
And if, along the way, he could claim what Damian had thrown away territory, power, perhaps even the boy himself well. That was just good business.
The Viper was hunting. And in his world, the only thing more dangerous than a predator was one who had just discovered a weakness in his prey.