The night was quiet.
Not peaceful—controlled.
The city murmured beneath layers of glass and steel, engines humming far below like distant insects, neon lights flickering awake as dusk surrendered to night. From this height, the city looked obedient. Small. Owned.
Aleksander Ninkovic sat sprawled across a light grey Italian leather couch, custom-made and worth more than most people's lives. The leather creaked softly under his weight as he leaned back, one long leg crossed over the other, posture relaxed to the point of arrogance. His head rested against the arm of the couch, one arm draped lazily along the back, fingers loosely holding a CohibaBehike56—rare, Cuban, and obscenely expensive.
Smoke curled through the air in slow, lazy spirals.
The cigar burned evenly, its rich aroma—earthy, spicy, dark—filling the vast living room like a living thing. Above him, a massive diamond chandelier shimmered faintly, crystals clinking softly as the building settled, each tiny sound echoing in the open space. Marble floors reflected the city lights bleeding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the skyline glittered like a crown of stars.
Aleksander stared up at the stark white ceiling, eyes unfocused.
His thoughts were elsewhere.
He drew from the cigar again, slow and indulgent, then leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. He removed the cigar from his lips, set it delicately in a crystal ashtray, and reached for a short tumbler of whiskey. One smooth motion—he downed it, the amber liquid burning pleasantly down his throat.
He exhaled.
Then another drag.
Aleksander turned his gaze toward the windows, watching the city lights dance against the black sky. It felt almost poetic. Almost romantic.
A soft knock interrupted the silence.
"Входи." [Come in.]
The doors opened soundlessly.
His assistant stepped inside, immaculate as always, holding a neatly tucked black folder against his chest. He crossed the room with measured steps, stopped a respectful distance away, and extended it with both hands.
Aleksander extinguished the cigar with a slow twist, eyes never leaving the city, then took the folder.
"Ты уверен, что здесь всё?" [Are you certain everything is here?]
His tone was calm—but expectation sharpened every syllable.
"Yes, Tsar," the assistant replied immediately. "Everything we could find."
Aleksander hummed softly in acknowledgment.
"Хорошо. Можешь идти." [Good. You may go.]
The assistant bowed his head slightly and exited without another word.
The door closed.
Silence reclaimed the room, thickened by lingering smoke.
Aleksander leaned back into the couch, loosening his tie with two fingers, the silk sliding free as he opened the folder. Papers rustled softly. The glow of the city lights illuminated the contents.
Then—
A name.
His lips curved.
"Значит… ты солгал мне, мой маленький зайчик." [So… you lied to me, my little bunny.]
The page stared back at him.
MatteoPark.
Aleksander repeated it quietly, tasting each syllable like fine liquor.
"Ма-тте-о." [Matteo]
A pause.
"Парк." [Park]
A low chuckle slipped from his throat.
He continued flipping through the file, page after page, his expression shifting from amusement to interest—then something darker. More focused.
"Двадцать два года." [Twenty-four.]
His brow lifted slightly.
"Рост — шесть футов два дюйма." [Height — six foot two.]
Another smirk.
"Наполовину южнокореец… наполовину итальянец." [Half South Korean… half Italian.]
He leaned forward now, elbows resting on his thighs, attention fully captured.
"Владелец тату-салона." [Owner of a tattoo parlor.]
A page turned.
"Рождён в Южной Корее." [Born in South Korea.]
Then—
His smile faded just a fraction.
"Оба родителя… мертвы." [Both parents… deceased.]
Silence followed.
Aleksander leaned back again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he stared at the ceiling once more. Smoke still hung in the air, heavy and intimate.
"Интересно…" [Interesting…]
A slow grin returned—sharper now.
"Очень интересно, мой зайчик." [Very interesting, my bunny.]
He tossed the folder onto the glass table with careless force. Papers slid and scattered across the surface, some slipping onto the marble floor. Aleksander didn't bother to look at them.
His gaze burned with intent.
"Лгать мне…" [To lie to me…]
A soft laugh escaped him, low and dangerous.
"Это смело." [That is bold.]
He stood, adjusting his suit jacket with precision, stepping over the fallen papers as he walked toward the windows. The city reflected back at him—power mirrored in glass.
"Пожалуй, я нанесу тебе визит." [I think I'll pay you a visit.]
A pause.
"And teach you," he added quietly, almost fondly,
"урок о честности." [a lesson about honesty.]
The chandelier chimed softly behind him as the city continued to glow—unaware that somewhere below, a tattoo artist had just become the focus of a Tsar's attention.