The intense tension between Victor and Alia hadn't even begun to fade when Isrovona's tormented cry echoed from directly beneath the bedroom window. He was screaming for his mother, his voice cracking with a mixture of agony and betrayal.
Isrovona: "Mother! How could you do this? How could you kill her?!"
From the courtyard below, Isrovona looked up at the balcony. In the dim morning light, he caught the blurred silhouettes of his parents against the glass. Seeing his mother in such a raw, compromised position with his father, he shut his eyes tight in a mix of shame and fury, turning his face away.
Isrovona: (Screaming) "Cover yourself, Mother! I need to speak to you! Now!"
At the sound of her son's voice, Alia's 'Godmother' persona instantly cooled. The primal fire in her eyes was replaced by the sharp, analytical steel of a matriarch. She gently but firmly pried Victor's hand from her hair. Victor let out a frustrated growl, but seeing the shift in Alia's expression, he stepped back, regaining his composure.
Alia quickly reached for her thin silk gown that lay discarded on the floor, pulling it over her frame. The crimson mark Victor had bitten into her neck was still fresh and visible against her pale skin. Victor stood by the bed, adjusting his shirt and buttoning it up, his cold, aristocratic elegance returning as if the last hour had never happened.
Before heading to the door, Alia turned back to Victor. Her voice was now laced with a mixture of sarcasm and maternal authority.
Alia: "What is wrong with you? Do you see now? My son is back. He's standing at the gate with the corpse of the woman he loved. Is your thirst satisfied, or are you still intent on playing the 'Lord' while our house burns?"
Victor adjusted his cuffs, a chilling, indifferent smile playing on his lips. He knew that despite her words, Alia could be just as ruthless as he was when it came to the family legacy.
Victor: "Tell him to come inside. But remind him—the moment he steps through those doors, he is not just your son. He is a soldier of the Romanov Empire. And soldiers do not weep for traitors."
Alia didn't respond. she turned and swept out of the room into the gallery. Her thin silk dress fluttered behind her with every predatory step, her presence radiating a lethal energy as she prepared to face her grieving heir.The oppressive silence of the Grand Hall was shattered as Alia descended the marble staircase. She carried herself with a chilling elegance, her thin silk gown trailing behind her like a ghost. At the foot of the stairs stood a devastated Isrovona. When he looked up and saw his mother—her hair slightly disheveled and the dark crimson mark on her neck still visible—he turned his face away in a flash of pure resentment.
Alia stopped a few steps above him, her voice calm but as sharp as a surgical blade.
Alia: "What is this? Why are you standing at the gates in the middle of the night causing a scene? Tears do not suit the man who dreams of inheriting the Romanov throne."
Isrovona exploded at his mother's cold indifference. He held up his hands, stained with the girl's blood.
Isrovona: "What is this? You act as if you don't know, Mother! You know everything! Not a single leaf falls in this country without your network sensing it. Today, your men shot her down like a bird at the border... and you? You were upstairs in a celebration of passion with Father? Did your heart not tremble for a second, even as a mother?"
Alia didn't flinch. She stepped down until she was inches away from him, " stature and the sheer intensity in her eyes forcing him to look at her.
Alia: (In a hard, unwavering tone) "I warned you. That girl was a threat to my network and this family. She didn't come here for love; she came to dismantle an empire from the inside. I didn't make a decision as a mother tonight I made it as the Godmother. And you? You are dragging the Romanov name through the mud for a digital ghost?"
Isrovona: (Screaming) "She wasn't a ghost! She was the only person who saw me for who I am, not for what I own!"
At that moment, Victor's heavy voice boomed from the top of the stairs: "Love is for the weak, Isrovona. Power is for those who can survive the loss of it."
Alia gave her son a look of cold pity, a faint, mocking smile touching her lips. She knew this grief was the fire that would either forge him into a leader or burn him to ash.
Alia: "Dry your eyes. The body has already been dealt with. I do not want to see a single trace of mourning in this palace by sunrise. Remember, you are my son a boy who isn't taught how to cry, only how to win." A cold, calculated plan was forming in Alia's mind. She knew that the only way to drown out the echoes of grief was to replace them with a new obsession. To secure the family's legacy, she decided to move the pieces on her chessboard immediately.
Alia stepped closer to her son, who was still staring at his blood-stained hands. Her eyes held the sharp, predatory brilliance of a Queen who had already decided the future.
Alia: "Isrovona, wasting time on the dead is how empires fall. I have decided you will be married tonight. I have arranged a union with the daughter of Russia's most powerful business tycoon. I am not asking for your consent; the ceremony happens before the sun rises."
Before Isrovona could utter a word of protest, the massive double doors of the Grand Hall swung open. Outside, the rain continued to lash against a fleet of black armored Mercedes.
At Alia's secret invitation, the head of one of the wealthiest families in the country entered, followed by his wife. But every eye in the room was instantly drawn to their daughter Elina.
The Arrival of Elina:
She was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing a fragile yet sharp elegance. Her skin was as pale as porcelain, contrasting perfectly with the diamond-encrusted, midnight-blue gown she wore. Her eyes were a piercing, oceanic blue, filled with a mix of high-born pride and silent intelligence. As she stepped into the hall, the very air seemed to shift; her beauty was so radiant that even the devastated Isrovona couldn't help but look at her for a fleeting moment.
Alia smiled inwardly. She knew that beauty of this caliber was a weapon capable of making any man forget his sorrow.
Alia: (Whispering to her son) "Look at her, Isrovona. This is royalty. This is the woman worthy of your name. Her father brings billions in investment to our networks and our black-market trade."
Elina walked gracefully toward Alia and bowed her head in respect. Her parents moved to shake hands with Victor, who was now descending the stairs, his presence looming large.
Victor: (In his deep, gravelly tone) "It seems tonight will not be a night of mourning after all, but a night of celebration."
Alia leaned into Isrovona's ear, her voice cold as ice. "Was your little hacker girl even a shadow compared to this princess? The choice is yours: embrace this beauty and take your throne, or walk out of these gates and die a beggar."As Elina stood in the center of the hall, Alia's sharp, predatory gaze locked onto her. Alia noticed immediately that Elina wasn't just a beauty; the way she carried herself and the cold calculation in her eyes were traits found only in women who sat at the pinnacle of power.Elina stood at approximately 6'1"—exactly 1 inch shorter than Alia. Despite standing before a woman as towering and influential as the Godmother, Elina didn't flinch. She stood tall, her intelligent eyes scanning every corner of the hall and measuring the weaknesses of everyone present in an instant. She was like a younger, sharper reflection of Alia herself—equally cold, and dangerously brilliant.
When Alia stepped forward to face her, it looked as though a tigress was meeting her worthy successor.
Alia: (Appraising her coldly) "My son is... unstable at the moment, Elina. Do you think you can handle him?"
Elina let out a thin, mysterious smile. There was a hidden fire in that smile, masked by high-born grace.
Elina: "Godmother, when a Prince loses his way, he needs a strong Queen to bring him back to the path. You can rest assured—what I decide to make mine, I never let go."
Hearing this, Victor chuckled darkly from the shadows. He realized that this girl wasn't just a socialite; she had the wit to challenge even Alia.
Alia leaned in close to Elina's ear, whispering just loud enough for her to hear. "Remember, being an inch shorter than me means staying an inch below me. If you want to claim my network or my son, you'll have to pass my tests first."
Elina didn't back down. She looked directly into Alia's eyes and replied, "I have a habit of coming first in every test, Godmother."
Isrovona watched this silent war of power between the two women. He realized that to save him from one "monster," his mother was handing him over to another enchanting "witch." Yet, under the spell of Elina's deep blue eyes and the intoxicating scent of her perfume, the memory of his dead lover began to blur into a distant shadow. Alia's eyes held a strange, cruel spark of amusement. She understood that the only way to pull Isrovona out of the depths of grief for his dead lover was through the intoxicating power of Elina's beauty and raw physical attraction. Alia knew better than anyone that desire is often the only thing stronger than sorrow.
Taking a slow sip of her drink, Alia looked at Elina and made a sharp, commanding gesture toward the grand staircase leading to the VIP Suite. The marriage contracts had been signed in the shadows; now, the union had to be sealed in blood and silk.
Alia: (To Elina, her voice cold and steady) "Go, Elina. Tonight is your wedding night. Remind my son that he is a man of flesh and blood, not a guardian of a grave. Make him yours—completely."
Elina gave a subtle nod, that dangerous, enchanting smile never leaving her lips. She walked over to Isrovona and took his hand. Though he flinched at first, the warmth of her touch and the hypnotic pull of her deep blue eyes forced him to follow her toward the upper floors like a man possessed.
Inside the VIP Suite:
The room was decorated in royal gold and deep reds. Outside, the brutal Russian rain lashed against the windows, but inside, the air was heavy with perfume and tension. As soon as they entered, Elina locked the door. She knew Alia was downstairs, likely monitoring every beat of their interaction through her vast network.
Isrovona stood by the window, his back to her. Elina moved with the grace of a predator, standing 6'1" tall as she wrapped her arms around him from behind.
Elina: (Whispering in his ear) "Your mother wants me to rule you, Isrovona. But I want you to conquer me. Let the blood of your grief stain the silk of this bed tonight. Forget the past; the future is standing right here."
Elina began to slowly lower the zipper of her midnight-blue gown. She was just as brilliant as Alia—she knew exactly which weapon to use and when. When Isrovona finally turned around, the sight of her incredible beauty caused the fire of his grief to be snuffed out by a new, burning flame of desire.
Downstairs in the hall, Alia and Victor remained by the fireplace, drinking. Alia knew that the boy who would come down those stairs tomorrow morning would no longer be the same Isrovona. He would be a new Mafia Prince, intoxicated by Elina's spell. A chilling secret flickered in the depths of Alia's mind. As she watched Elina and Isrovona disappear into the upper levels of the palace, a cryptic smile played on her lips. She knew that everything the world—and even their own children—believed about their family was nothing more than a masterfully orchestrated stage play.
Alia took a final sip of her drink, her thoughts spiraling back to the truth that only a few dared to know.
"The world thinks they know us," she thought to herself. "They think they know our age, our history. But no one knows how young we actually are. People marvel at our vitality, our ageless skin, and our dominance, but they don't realize that these years are just numbers we've assigned to ourselves. From the very beginning, Grandfather drew the blueprints of this story so perfectly that no one could ever see through the facade. Marrying off 'grown' children, ruling an empire... it's all part of a grander game. In reality, our true ages are so young it would make all of Russia tremble in shock. It's all a lie—the records, the official identities, the history—all of it."
Alia looked at her reflection in the darkened window. Her 6'2" frame was flawless, her skin showing none of the wear of the decades she supposedly lived. Victor was the same. They moved with a grace and power that defied the biological clock. Grandfather had taught them that to hold absolute power, one must first master the art of the eternal mask.
Victor stepped up behind her, sensing the shift in her energy. He leaned in, his voice a low vibration. "Everyone thinks we are aging, that we are the old guard. They don't realize our real lives have only just begun. Isrovona's marriage is just another layer of the smoke and mirrors."
Alia smiled. Behind the lie of their age lay a fortress of power that no one could breach. Not even their son knew that his parents were closer to his own age than he could ever imagine.