Boris's throat went dry. "Miss Benson, you can't just—"
But Seva was watching her now. Watching her the way a predator studies a new kind of prey.
He tilted his head slightly, that same faint smile returning—curiosity flickering behind his icy blue eyes.
The air inside Senator Boris Volkov's office was thick with smoke and tension.
"…I didn't know you had company."
Calista's voice broke the silence like a crack of ice. She stepped inside, brushing snow off her coat, every movement calm and deliberate. "I'm sorry for barging in like this," she continued, flashing a polite smile, "but I have something urgent to give you, Senator."
Her eyes flickered toward the tall man leaning lazily against the desk. Blonde hair, pale eyes, smoke curling between his fingers. He looked familiar.
Wait... I met this man yesterday, she thought, pulse hitching slightly. I'm not sure he remembers me.
She turned back to Boris before her nerves betrayed her. "As I received no reply from you the last time we spoke, I'm going to move ahead with the case," she said, her tone brisk but courteous. She reached into her bag and produced two thick files. "This one's for the appeal, and the other is a court order to cease enforcement. The relevant documents are enclosed—so look over them carefully when you have time."
She smiled brightly, placing the files into Boris's trembling hands.
Boris's nostrils flared. His knuckles went white around the folders.
"You good-for-nothing rookie attorney—how dare you come at me like this?!" he spat, veins straining on his forehead.
Calista tilted her head, unfazed.
"Since a rookie attorney such as myself is aware of the facts," she said evenly, "I'll assume the case regarding the illegal funds and the bank will be wrapped up soon enough."
That smile—sharp and knowing—cut through the room like glass.
That should be enough to rattle him, she thought, already planning her exit.
But then her gaze caught on the man again. The one leaning against the desk. The one who hadn't looked away since she entered.
He was still watching her. Not the way men usually did—not admiringly, not curiously. His eyes were too calm for that. Too deliberate. As though he was reading her thoughts and dismantling them one by one.
He's been staring at me since I came in. What's his relationship with Boris? I have to find out...
She forced a polite smile and turned toward him. "Hello. I'm Calista—as you can see, a lawyer," she said, extending a business card toward him.
The man didn't move. He just stared at the card, then exhaled—slowly, deliberately—blowing smoke directly into her face.
"…"
Calista coughed, blinking through the haze. "Excuse me—"
Before she could finish, the man standing near the door—Yuta, she'd learn his name later—stepped forward quickly, offering her a sleek black card instead.
"Our boss's contact," he said curtly.
"Oh," Calista murmured, momentarily thrown off balance. She accepted it, glancing down at the name engraved in silver foil:
Vsevolod Rurikovich Svyatopolsky.
Her eyes widened slightly. She'd heard that name before.
She looked up again, but Seva was no longer watching her—he'd turned his gaze toward the window, as if the whole exchange bored him.
"I'll be going now," she said, forcing her composure back into place. "Thank you for your time. I'll be waiting for your reply… bye."
She pivoted quickly and left the office, heels clicking down the hall until the door shut behind her.
Silence followed.
Boris slammed the files onto his desk, rage twisting his features. "The nerve of that lawyer! How dare she—do you see what we're dealing with?! She's going to get in the way if we don't take care of this quickly!"
Seva didn't respond immediately. He took a slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing like a faint heartbeat in the dim light.
Finally, he exhaled, eyes still on the door Calista had just walked through.
"Seems like it," he murmured, the ghost of a smirk curling his lips.
He tapped ash into the tray. "Tell me, Senator," he added softly, "how many people have tried to stand in your way before?"
Boris hesitated. "W-what are you implying?"
Seva finally looked at him, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"I'm saying," he said, voice smooth, "if you were truly in control, that woman wouldn't dare walk into your office and speak to you like that. You're losing grip, Boris. And when weak men lose their grip…" He leaned closer, eyes glinting. "…stronger ones take what's left."
He smiled again—a slow, deliberate curl of his mouth that made Boris step back without even realizing it.
"Don't worry," Seva said, straightening his coat. "I'll take care of your little problem."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "She's… intriguing, though. Not many people walk into a den full of wolves with their head held high."
He looked at the door again, the faintest glint of amusement in his cold blue eyes.
"Maybe," he murmured, "it's been too long since I had something interesting to chase."
The washroom mirror reflected a woman trying very hard to look composed.
Calista leaned over the sink, fingers gripping the porcelain edge as cold water trickled down her cheeks. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead. She stared at her own reflection—sharp eyes, furrowed brows, and that flicker of something she refused to name.
"That man…" she whispered, the words barely leaving her lips. "Something's off about him."
She straightened, water still dripping from her jawline, and reached into her pocket. The sleek black card gleamed faintly under the light, the silver engraving catching her eye:
Vsevolod Rurikovich Svyatopolsky.
"His calm vibe was so different from when I accidentally ran into him," she muttered, thumbing the edge of the card. "That… wasn't coincidence."
She remembered the way he looked at her in Boris's office—not with anger or annoyance, but quiet curiosity. The kind that made her feel seen and stripped bare all at once. His eyes were too cold, too patient. It wasn't the gaze of a man surprised—it was a man studying.
"There was something unnerving about him," she murmured again. "That stillness… that arrogance… he's dangerous. I can feel it."
She slid the card into her bag and exhaled, gathering her thoughts before heading back to her office.
A few hours later, the sun had dipped below Moscow's skyline. The city's lights flickered against the glass walls of her small firm, the hum of traffic a dull echo far below. Calista sat at her desk, her client Alexei across from her, pale and visibly anxious.
He turned the business card in his hands as if afraid it might burn him.
"Is this the mafia?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.
"That's what I don't know, Alexei," Calista said, pushing a steaming mug of tea toward him. "But I saw him in Boris's office today."
She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, watching Alexei's expression shift from confusion to terror.
He swallowed hard. "No, but this business card…" He turned it again, reading the name aloud, "…'Svyatopolsky.'" His eyes shot up to her. "That's one of Russia's biggest mafias. Based on this card, he's at least—at least—an executive. Then what are we going to do now?"
Calista didn't answer right away. She took a slow sip of her tea, her mind already racing several moves ahead.
"This is going to be very difficult," she said finally, voice steady. "If such a man is backing up Boris… we're walking into something far bigger than a corruption case."
Alexei's hands trembled slightly around his cup. "B-but Boris would never comply—he has the entire Volkov group behind him, and now this?"
She placed her cup down gently, the sound deliberate. Her lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile.
"No," she said. "I'm not talking about him."
She leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. Her hazel eyes gleamed with quiet resolve.
"From now on," she said, her voice lowering, "I'm going to stir up the mafia."
Inside, her thoughts spun like storm clouds, fast and relentless.
If Svyatopolsky is truly involved, that means the corruption runs deeper than just Volkov's greed. A banker being targeted? That's not business—it's a message. They're cleaning house. And I just walked into their sightline.
Her pulse quickened—not with fear, but with something sharper. Challenge.
They think I'll back off because they're dangerous? Because they have power and money and guns?
A bitter laugh slipped past her lips. They've clearly never dealt with a Benson before.
Her grandmother's voice echoed faintly in her mind—old wisdom from years ago:
"The world will try to break you, Callie. So when it does, you don't cry. You sharpen your teeth."
And right then, under the soft city glow, Calista decided she would.
She would sharpen her teeth.
And if the mafia wanted a war—then she'd give them a lawyer's version of one: brutal, brilliant, and lawful enough to leave no trace.
"Let's see," she murmured, picking up the card again. "Vsevolod Rurikovich Svyatopolsky… Let's see how untouchable you really are."
Seva sat behind his wide glass desk, the skyline of Moscow sprawled out behind him in a wash of amber light. His office was a museum of power — black marble floors, velvet drapes, a bar lined with imported liquor, and the faint scent of cigar smoke that clung to everything. He turned the small box in his hands, the corners catching the light.
"A pocket knife," he said, voice low, amused. "Made of gold."
He flipped it open with a soft click, inspecting the fine engraving on the blade. "Hmm… I wonder how Senator Boris found out about my hobby of collecting pocket knives. And it's made of gold, too. He really knows my taste. Any idea, Yuta?"
Yuta froze. He'd been standing a respectful two steps back, head slightly bowed, but the question made his shoulders tense.
"I— I'm sorry, sir," Yuta stammered. "The senator asked me what you'd appreciate as a gift. I assumed it was harmless to share the information."
Seva looked up, eyes sharp with interest but mouth still curved in a lazy smile. "You assumed." He twirled the knife between his fingers, the blade flashing. "And do you think I like it?"
Yuta swallowed. "Do you not, sir?"
"Oh, I do," Seva said, setting the knife back down carefully. "That's what I find… unpleasant." He chuckled — a low, smooth sound that somehow felt like a warning. "Tell Boris his taste is impeccable. I'll be sure to return the favor soon."
"Of course, sir."
Seva leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the city below — until a knock disrupted it.
"Excuse me, Knyaz," said Ivan, stepping in. "There's someone insisting they made an appointment."
"Who?" Yuta asked immediately. "We went over the day's schedule—there's no one left."
"It's… an attorney, sir. A woman. She says she represents a man named Alexei."
Seva's smile faded, just for a fraction of a second. Then he waved his hand dismissively. "Tell her I'm out. And return this—" he tapped the knife box "—to Boris with my regards."
"Ah, yes, sir," Yuta began—
CRASH!
The sound of breaking glass exploded through the room, followed by silence. Then the heavy double doors slammed open.
Calista Okailey Benson strode in, heels clicking against the marble like gunshots. Her dark blazer was slightly wrinkled from the struggle with the guards, but her composure was intact — razor-sharp, burning with fury.
"You seem busy, Mr. Svyatopolsky," she said, voice smooth but edged with steel. "Funny, because I distinctly remember scheduling this meeting. You're putting me in a very tight spot here — lying like this."
Yuta's hand twitched toward his gun, but Seva lifted a finger, still smiling. "Ah, the fiery attorney. I told you, I'm not interested in meeting you."
"Well, I'm not interested in being ignored," she said flatly. "I'm on a tight schedule, Mr. Svyatopolsky."
"So am I," Seva replied, exhaling another stream of smoke, eyes glinting with amusement.
Calista took a slow breath, her jaw tightening as she approached his desk. "Then let's not waste time. This is about the extortion and framing of my client, Alexei. You can exert considerable influence on the senator."
Seva tilted his head. "Hmm… I'm not sure about that, Attorney."
Her tone hardened. "You do know I'm Alexei's legal counsel, right?"
He smiled lazily. "No, can't say I remember. We've met?"
"Senator Boris's office," she said through clenched teeth.
"Too bad," he said, lighting another cigar. "You must not have made much of an impression."
That did it.
Calista's patience snapped. She reached across the desk in a blur — one hand grabbing Seva by the tie, the other snatching up the golden knife. Before anyone could react, she slammed him down against the polished desk, the blade gleaming inches from his eye.
Yuta shouted, "How dare you—!" but Seva raised a hand, still smiling even as his back pressed against the glass.
"Do you remember now, Mr. Svyatopolsky?" she asked quietly, her tone steady, dangerously calm. Her face was so close he could smell the faint trace of coffee and vanilla lotion on her skin.
Seva's laugh was soft, low, and utterly amused. "Ah… yes. Now I remember. I'll remember this for sure."
Calista released him abruptly, straightening her jacket as if nothing had happened.
"Good," she said crisply. "You're aiding a corrupt senator, but I won't dwell on that. However…" she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping into a warning whisper, "…I think it's likely Senator Boris will be imprisoned soon. And those who helped him won't escape the investigation."
Seva sat back up, brushing invisible dust from his shirt, cigar still burning between his fingers. He looked utterly unbothered.
Calista pulled a file from her bag and tossed it onto his desk. "Here. Review it. Consider the gains and losses carefully — as a mafia executive, you should understand risk better than most."
She turned toward the door. "Give me a call in four days. I'll see you soon, Mr. Svyatopolsky."
The door slammed shut behind her.
Yuta exhaled shakily. "Knyaz, are you all right? How dare she— I'll give orders to—"
Seva raised a hand again, eyes still fixed on the door she'd just stormed out of.
"No need," he said, a smirk curving his mouth. "Return the knife to Boris. And find out everything about this woman — her family, her hometown, what she eats for breakfast. Everything."
He chuckled softly, the sound dark and delighted. "She's… very interesting."