His bratva princess

Chapter 3

The heavy iron gates of the Volkov compound clicked shut behind the armored SUV, sealing out the rest of the city. It was 3:12 AM by the time Rodion stepped into his private quarters. The sprawling penthouse was a monument to minimalist luxury—sharp lines, cold marble, and a suffocating silence that usually brought him peace.

Tonight, it felt suffocating for a different reason.

His headache had finally subsided into a dull, low throb, but his mind was racing at a tempo he couldn’t control. Rodion exhaled a harsh breath, peeling off his charcoal suit jacket and tossing it onto a leather armchair. He loosened his silk tie, unbuttoning the first three buttons of his crisp white shirt as he strode down the hallway toward his private gym.

He needed to exhaust his body until his brain had no choice but to shut down.

Stripping down to a pair of black athletic shorts, Rodion didn't bother wrapping his hands. He walked straight to the heavy leather punching bag hanging from the reinforced ceiling. He took a stance, his bare feet gripping the cold floor, and let loose.

Crack. Crack.

The sound of his bare knuckles striking the dense leather echoed sharply in the empty room. He threw a brutal left hook, followed by a devastating right cross. He pushed his pace, his muscles coiling and exploding with practiced, lethal precision. He was a weapon forged by centuries of Bratva tradition, trained to endure pain, to command armies, and to never lose control.

Yet, with every strike, a flash of wide brown eyes flickered in his peripheral vision.

“Are you an i***t? Look at this car! You ruined it!”

Rodion stopped mid-combination, his chest heaving as he rested his forehead against the cool leather of the bag. Sweat poured down his neck, carving paths through the intricate, dark ink of the Vor v Zakone tattoos stretching across his broad shoulders and chest.

He let out a low, dark curse in Russian.

It was pathetic. He was the heir to the most powerful syndicate on the East Coast, a man who had looked death in the face without blinking, and he was currently losing sleep over a civilian girl whose name he didn't even know. A mouthy, spoiled little brat who had dared to stand inches from his chest and yell at him as if he were a common street thug.

She had no filter. No survival instincts. Anyone else in this city would have trembled at the mere shadow of his SUV, but she had looked at him with nothing but pure, unadulterated fury.

And then she had cried.

Rodion’s jaw tightened as he remembered the sound of that ragged, choked sob. It had irritated him. It had stopped him dead in his tracks. He wasn't a savior, and he certainly didn't care about tears, yet he had opened his door and let her into his sanctuary.

Pushing himself away from the bag, Rodion walked out of the gym and into the bathroom. He turned the shower handle completely to the right, stepping under a stream of ice-cold water without flinching. The freezing temperature shocked his skin, forcing his breathing to steady. He closed his grey eyes, letting the water wash away the sweat and the lingering scent of her sweet, floral perfume that had somehow trapped itself in his senses during that silent car ride.

Ten minutes later, he was lying in his king-sized bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. The sheets were crisp and cool, the room perfectly climate-controlled, but sleep remained frustratingly out of reach.

His mind, running on the cold efficiency of a chess grandmaster, began to dissect the final moments of the night.

The father.

When they had pulled up to that modest, neatly kept suburban house, Rodion had watched the man sprint down the steps. His driver had handled the situation quickly, taking accountability and promising that the vehicle was already being towed to a top-tier repair shop. It was true—the shop was heavily tied to the Volkov family's legitimate automotive holdings, meaning the car would be restored to pristine condition by morning—but Rodion hadn't been listening to his driver's promises. He had been studying the father’s face through the tinted glass.

There was something about the older man’s posture. The sharp, guarded look in his eyes before he realized his daughter was safe. The way he carried himself—it wasn't entirely the posture of a man who spent his life staring at accounting spreadsheets.

"I know him," Rodion thought, his eyes narrowing in the darkness.

He ran through the catalog of faces in his memory. Business associates, rival front-men, low-level politicians, shipping captains. Nothing fits perfectly. It was like trying to place a ghost. The man looked completely ordinary, a pampered civilian father kissing the top of his daughter's head, but a deeply ingrained instinct in Rodion’s gut whispered that he had crossed paths with that face before. Years ago. In a life before, he took over the daily operations of the Volkov family.

Rodion rolled onto his side, pounding his fist lightly into the pillow.

"Enough," he muttered into the empty room, his gravelly voice thick with annoyance.

He was scolding himself now. He was letting a routine traffic mishap turn into a paranoid conspiracy. The girl was a mannerless, loudmouthed distraction. Her father was an accountant. Tomorrow, the car would be returned, the insurance details would be finalized by his underlings, and he would never have a reason to see or think about her again.

He had an empire to run. He had shipping routes in the harbor to secure from the Italian factions, a shipment of weapons arriving from Europe, and a dinner with his father to discuss the expanding territory. He didn't have the time or the luxury to analyze a girl who couldn't even keep her father's sedan on the right side of a yellow light.

Finally, the exhaustion of the grueling day began to pull at his eyelids. The ice-cold shower had done its job, slowing his heart rate until his thoughts began to blur into a heavy, dreamless gray.

Letting out one last, irritated sigh, Rodion Volkov finally closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

He convinced himself that tomorrow, she would be nothing but a forgotten detail. He was completely, utterly wrong.