It honestly feels like you all aren't enjoying the book… I barely see any support, and it's really sad. Are you guys mad at me or what?
Your votes, comments, and reviews mean a lot — please don't stay silent. Show some love if you're still reading.
Maria stepped down from the private jet slowly, the cool wind brushing her face.
It had been months since she last saw daylight, and the feel of the sun touched her skin. she couldn't wait to see her niece again.
A luxury black sedan was already waiting on the tarmac. The chauffeur, dressed in a sharp suit, stepped out and bowed slightly.
"Good afternoon, Madam," he greeted. "Mr. Volkov instructed that I take you to your residence."
Maria smiled faintly and got into the car.
She was quiet during the ride, her mind filled with thoughts of Elena.
She must have missed me so much, she thought softly.
After some minutes, the car pulled into a large, gated compound — elegant, quiet, and surrounded by trees.
Maria frowned, glancing through the tinted glass.
"This isn't where I live," she said, confusion in her voice.
The chauffeur nodded politely. "Mr. Volkov ordered that you stay here for now, ma'am. It's for your safety."
"My safety?" she repeated, her brows furrowing. "What's going on?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am. Those are the orders."
Maria sighed, stepping out of the car.
The house was beautiful — modern, with white walls and glass doors — but it felt lonely. She stepped inside, still thinking of Elena.
"Elena…" she whispered under her breath, her heart heavy. "Where are you, my dear?"
***
Damian sat behind his desk, scrolling through reports when his phone rang.
The caller ID flashed — Detective Rowen.
He picked up. "Speak," he said sharply.
"Sir," Rowen's voice came through the line, serious and low, "you told me to dig into the death of your father — to find out who ordered it."
Damian's hand tightened around the phone. "And?" he demanded, his tone cold, impatient.
Rowen hesitated for a second.
"Sir, we dug deep… and it turns out the person behind it… was your uncle. Leonid Voss."
For a moment, Damian didn't move. His mind went blank — and then the rage came. His jaw clenched, his breath came harder.
The sound of the detective's voice faded.
"What did you just say?" Damian's voice was dangerously calm now, every word slicing through the air.
"Leonid, sir."
Damian stood up so suddenly that his chair hit the wall behind him.
His eyes were cold, burning with fury.
He ended the call without another word, grabbed his suit jacket, and stormed out of his office. His secretary stood up immediately when he saw him.
"Sir—"
"Did Leonid come to the office today?" Damian asked tightly.
The man shook his head nervously. "No, sir. He hasn't been in all morning."
Damian didn't reply. He just turned and walked straight out of the building.
Outside, his car was waiting.
He slid in, slammed the door, and gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
His breathing was heavy — he couldn't believe his father's killer has been in front of him all this years.
He started the car, the tires screeching against the asphalt as he sped off.
He didn't go home.
Instead, he drove to an old rooftop — the one his father used to take him to when he was a boy.
The place hadn't changed much — same rusty railings, same quiet wind that carried the city sounds far below.
He stood there for a moment, staring into the distance, memories flooding in — his father's laughter, his advice, the bond they had.
Then his expression hardened. He took out his phone and called one of his most trusted men.
"Find Leonid wherever he is and tell him to meet me on the rooftop," Damian said, his voice low and steady.
"Alone."
The man hesitated. "Yes, sir."
He took a deep breath, his jaw tightening as flashes of memory crossed his mind—his father's laughter, the blood, his mother's screams.
An hour later,
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Leonid appeared. Two guards followed,
"Stay downstairs, I think I'm going to have a long talk with my nephew" Leonid ordered without turning around.
The men looked at Leonid. They obeyed, closing the heavy door behind them.
Now it was just the two of them—the nephew and the uncle.
Damian didn't say a word. His cold eyes locked on him.
"What do you want, Damian?" Leonid scoffed, trying to stand straight.
"You dared to..."
Damian's fist slammed into his jaw before he could finish. The sound of the punch echoed across the rooftop.
Leonid stumbled back, blood dripping from his lip.
Damian grabbed him by the collar, his voice low and sharp as a blade.
"You killed him," he growled. "You killed my father!"
Leonid laughed—a cold, dry sound that only made Damian's anger boil hotter.
"You just found out? Wow," Leonid chuckled, wiping the blood from his lip.
"And I thought you were the smart one in the family. It's been years, Damian. You're late."
Damian punched him again—harder this time. Leonid fell to the ground, groaning.
"You—had—everything!" Damian shouted, his voice cracking with rage.
"He trusted you! He treated you like a brother!"
Leonid pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring up at him.
"And that's exactly the problem!" he barked.
"Your father had everything. The company. The respect. The name. Everyone loved him—while I was left in the shadows.
Forgotten."
He reached inside his coat with shaking hands and pulled out a black pistol.
Damian didn't even flinch—his face stayed calm, unreadable, though his eyes were like fire.
Leonid's hand trembled, his voice breaking as years of jealousy poured out.
"I had to do it," he said. "I had no choice. But even after he was gone—the company still went to you!"
***
Twenty Years Ago
The mansion had been quiet that night.
A little boy—seven years old—was giggling softly, barefoot on the marble floor, hiding behind curtains and furniture.
"Papa, you'll never find me!" young Damian whispered to himself, his small voice echoing faintly.
He slipped into his father's study, the large wooden desk towering above him.
He saw an open wardrobe and grinned, sneaking inside, pulling the door almost closed.
Moments later, his father walked in—Damian could see him through a thin crack.
The man looked around, smiling faintly.
"Damian?" he called out gently. "Where are you, my boy?"
But before he could take another step, the study door opened again.
A man entered—his face covered by a black mask, his voice deep.
Young Damian's tiny fingers gripped the wardrobe door, his heart beating fast.
His father looked at the man in front of him asked, confused.
"What are you—"
The masked man raised a pistol.
"I'm sorry, brother," the man said quietly.
The gunshot was deafening.
Damian gasped, his hands covering his ears, tears streaming down his face.
He stayed hidden—frozen—as the masked man walked away.
When silence returned, the boy pushed the wardrobe door open slowly.
"Papa?" he whispered.
He walked toward the desk—his little feet trembling.
His father lay on the floor, blood pooling around his head. Damian fell to his knees beside him, shaking his father's arm.
"Papa… wake up… please wake up…"
But his father didn't move. His eyes were still open—glassy, empty.
Damian cried, his small hands stained red, his heart breaking in ways too deep for a child to understand.
That night, something inside him changed forever.