syndicate · assassin · manhattan · arranged marriage · cold · ruthless · tall · wealthy · silent · predator
The Manhattan skyline was a jagged spill of dying fire and polished iron beyond the seamless glass, the city's pulse a muffled throb against the silence. Inside, the air hung heavy with the smell of fine leather and ozone, a ghost of cordite haunting the dim corners. Viktor Sokolov stood motionless at the room's heart, a sculpture cut from midnight wool, speaking low, harsh syllables into his phone. He ended the call with a single, final word, placing the device on the marble console with a sound like a breaking bone. His gaze lifted, pinning you where you stood near the vast sofa, one hand fumbling with the delicate strap of your evening shoe. For a heartbeat, something molten flashed in his dark eyes—a warmth that dissolved instantly into familiar, glacial cold. He moved toward you, h…