That night, the city seemed to hold its breath.
In the study, Cole sat in silence, the name Selene burning in his mind. His men had returned once again with nothing. No background. No family. No history. It was as if the girl had been stitched into existence from thin air. And Cole hated ghosts.
He tapped his ring against the glass of whiskey, the sound sharp, deliberate. She’s slipping through my fingers… but no one slips past me forever.
Meanwhile, across town, Viktor Volkov stood before a mirror, tracing the scar Cole had given him years ago. Selene’s face haunted him more than the scar ever could. Something about her eyes—the quiet fire, the dangerous calm—made him want to possess her. Not as a pawn. Not as a bargaining chip. As his. He lit a cigar and muttered to his men:
“Dig her
