Russian scorpion

living room

The President’s laughter still echoed in the gilded room, heavy and rough, when Leo finally moved. It was not hesitation—it was a sudden, fluid, predatory movement. His hand darted toward the table between them, fingers closing around the first object within reach: a silver letter opener, sharp enough to shine even in the soft glow of the chandeliers.

In one clean motion, he raised it and pressed the blade’s tip against the thick cord of the President’s neck.

The entire room froze.

The guards stiffened instantly, their hands flying to their holsters, their muscles coiled like springs. Andrei’s eyes widened a fraction—shock quickly masked by the faintest grin tugging at his lips.

But Leo’s face…

His lips twisted into something dark, something dangerous. A smile that wasn’t joy but hunger. Bloody, sharp, a smile of a man who had spent too many nights bleeding in rings, too many days surviving in alleys, and had long since lost fear Of the people . His eyes burned as he leaned closer, his voice low and venomous.

“Shut up.”

The silence that followed was so thick . The fire in the hearth hissed, the only sound in the cavernous room.

And then—the President.

The blade touched his skin, close enough to kiss his pulse, but he didn’t flinch. Not even a breath wavered in his massive chest. Instead, his lips curved into the faintest smile, calm and slow. His eyes, those icy predator’s eyes, locked on Leo’s with a glimmer of something rare—interest.

“Okay,” he said, the word smooth, almost amused, as though Leo had merely interrupted him with a joke at dinner.

The guards exchanged bewildered glances, unsure whether to lunge or stay frozen. No one had ever dared to raise a hand to their boss, not like this, not face to face.

Leo’s grip didn’t falter. His smile stayed—dangerous, bloody, unhinged. His eyes dared the man to give him a reason to push harder.

But the President only leaned back slightly, the blade still pressed at his throat, and chuckled—a low, deep sound that reverberated in the silence.

“You are the first,” he murmured, his accent curling thick around the words, “the first man who has pointed steel at me in my own house and lived long enough to smile about it.” His eyes narrowed with something that was not anger, not fear, but pure, cold fascination.

Then his tone hardened, sharp as iron.

“But know this, little lion—” his lips twisted into something between a grin and a snarl—“I will not accept any refusal from you. Not now. Not ever. You will join my family, or you will break in my hands.”

Leo’s smile widened a fraction, his teeth flashing, his eyes gleaming like a predator who had found prey worth killing. He leaned in closer, the blade pressing harder for a heartbeat, then drew it away deliberately, tossing the letter opener onto the table where it clattered

The room exhaled as one, the guards’ fingers twitching back from their triggers, but the atmosphere didn’t ease. If anything, it thickened, the air heavy with the realization: Leo had crossed a line no one else dared to cross—and survived.

For the first time, the lion and the wolf faced each other not as king and pup, but as equals.

And everyone in that villa would remember that night, when Leo smiled his bloody smile and told the President to shut up.

The silver letter opener lay on the polished table where Leo had tossed it, its edge catching the golden chandelier light. The silence afterward felt as if the villa itself was holding its breath.

The President leaned back slowly in his chair, his thick hands folding together as if he hadn’t just had steel at his throat. His lips twitched, almost into a smile, though his icy eyes remained as cold as Siberian frost.

“You are stubborn,” he said finally, his tone casual, almost bored. “Too stubborn for your own good.”

Leo stood tall, his bandaged shoulder aching, but his jaw firm. His silence was its own defiance.

The President tilted his head, studying him with that piercing gaze. Then he sighed, as though speaking to a reckless child.

“Join us, Leo. Fight for me, fight with me. You will have wealth, ” His voice dropped lower, dangerous in its calm. “Refuse… and you will die here. Fight for us—or die.”

At his final word, the sound of steel filled the air.

Every guard in the room moved at once, their guns snapping up, barrels gleaming under the light. A dozen triggers half-pulled, a dozen eyes sharp, every one of them locked on Leo.

The atmosphere turned suffocating. Smoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of tension mixed in the air.

And Leo?

He smiled.

Not the bloody, dangerous smile from before—but something smaller, sharper. A smirk. His eyes glittered with dark amusement as if the sight of twelve men ready to shoot him was somehow funny. His lips parted, and his voice came out low, steady.

“I prefer death,” he said simply, each word like stone.

A ripple passed through the guards—confusion, disbelief. Even Andrei raised a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging upward at Leo’s sheer insanity.

The President’s eyes widened slightly. And then—he laughed.

It wasn’t the cruel laugh from before. This time it was deeper, rolling, loud, shaking his massive shoulders. It roared across the room , startling even his own men. He slapped the armrest of his chair, his gold ring clinking against the wood as he wheezed with amusement.

“This boy!” he barked between laughs. “This stupid, fearless boy! He would rather die standing than fight for someone else.” He leaned forward, eyes flashing. “You amuse me, Leo.”

The guns remained fixed on Leo, but the tension shifted—less bloodthirsty, more uncertain. No one knew if the President would let them shoot or clap.

The mafia leader finally calmed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, though his grin lingered. His voice dropped again, sharp and commanding.

“Andrei,” he said smoothly, turning his head without looking away from Leo. “Bring him. If he won’t walk with us willingly, he will walk with us under chains.”

Andrei’s boots clicked softly on the marble floor as he stepped forward. His hand rested casually on his weapon, but his smirk betrayed the spark of amusement in his eyes. “Come on, stubborn lion,” he murmured. “The boss likes you too much to kill you… yet.”

Leo’s glare stayed locked on the President, his chest rising and falling with steady defiance. Surrounded, outgunned, pain searing through his shoulder—he still refused to bow. His silence was louder than any scream.

The President leaned back, exhaling smoke from his cigar, and said with cold delight, “You can fight me, little lion, but you cannot fight fate.”

The guns stayed raised, the air buzzing with suspense, as Andrei moved closer, ready to drag Leo into the jaws of the mafia he swore he would never serve.