The name Volkov slams into me like a bullet I never saw coming.
I stare at him—at Damian—as the puzzle pieces click into place with chilling clarity. The silver eyes. The arrogance. The power pulsing beneath the surface like a ticking bomb.
Of course it's him.
Of course.
The boy who once cornered me behind my father's study and said my family was a cancer. The boy who spat my name like it tasted foul. The boy I threw into a fountain at age ten, then watched smirk as his guards dragged him out soaking and laughing.
I should've recognized the storm in his eyes.
But I didn't. And now, it's too late.
"Alina," Luca says lowly, his voice tight, "step away from him."
I don't move. I can't.
My fingers are curled into fists at my sides. My pulse is pounding in my throat. Damian Volkov just stares at me—his expression unreadable, a king holding court among traitors. But there's something behind his eyes. Something I recognize.
Confusion.
Recognition.
A flicker of… interest?
I hate that it makes my skin burn.
"I see you've changed," he says finally, voice low and smooth. "Didn't recognize you without the blood on your knuckles."
"And you haven't changed at all," I reply. "Still a condescending prick."
Luca steps between us again, jaw clenched. "That's enough."
He turns to Damian, and I catch the faintest glimmer of something dangerous flicker in Damian's expression. He looks at my brother the way wolves look at rival alphas—measured, amused, ready to strike if provoked.
"This isn't your family's territory," Luca warns.
"This isn't a battlefield," Damian says coolly. "Unless you're trying to make it one."
I step forward again before Luca can reply. "We're not doing this. Not here. Not tonight."
Damian's eyes flick back to me, and for a heartbeat, everything else fades—the music, the crowd, even my brother's protective fury.
There's only us.
And the thick, electric air between us.
Then he smirks—slow, deliberate, infuriating. "Until next time, Moretti."
He turns and disappears into the crowd, black suit melting into shadows.
I don't breathe again until he's gone.
------------------ ❖ ❖ ❖ ---------------------
"Are you out of your mind?" Luca hisses the moment we're alone in the side hallway near the balcony. "Talking to him? Letting him stand that close to you?"
"I didn't know who he was," I snap, but even I hear how shaky my voice is.
"That's Damian Volkov. He's not just a face—he's the head of the *Volkov faction* now. The man's been orchestrating the slow bleed of our family's power for the last two years."
I press my back against the wall, the cold marble grounding me. "I didn't plan to spill wine on him, if that's what you're implying."
Luca paces, running a hand through his dark hair. "He's dangerous, Alina. You don't know what he's capable of."
I look at him, my voice quiet. "Maybe I do."
He stops pacing, eyes narrowing.
"I knew him," I say. "Before. When we were kids. That ceasefire dinner at Nonna's estate—he was the one I fought with in the courtyard. Remember?"
Luca curses under his breath. "Of course. That little bastard gave you a black eye."
"He had one too," I mutter, rubbing my temple like the memory still aches.
My brother sighs. "You've been gone a long time. The game's changed. And he's not some brat with bruised pride anymore—he's a player. And the next time he looks at you like that—like he's trying to figure out where your weaknesses lie—you walk away. Got it?"
I nod, but I'm lying.
Because I felt it too.
That crackle. That fire.
The dangerous part of me—the one I tried to bury under years of discipline and soft diplomacy—liked the way he looked at me.
Not like I was a porcelain princess.
But like I was a threat.
An equal.
And God help me…
I want to see him again.