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My mind keeps replaying the scene, analyzing each word, each movement. Valentina's always been an enigma to me. Bold and fierce, yet always guarded. Always controlled. But seeing her like this, vulnerable, has raised questions, suspicions.
Pulling over to the side of the road, I take out my phone, unlocking it and launching a search engine. Let's see... "Valentina..." I pause. Shit. I don't even know her last name. Shaking my head at my own folly, I go for the obvious and type "Valentina St. Petersburg."
Page after page of profiles pop up. Some match her age, some her city, but none match her face. Unyielding, I switch to Instagram, then LinkedIn, even TikTok, hoping for a trace, a glimpse into the world she's hiding. But Valentina remains elusive, a phantom amid the digital age.
An idea strikes me. I visit some local directories, thinking maybe she's involved in some community events, charities, or local businesses. Again, zilch. It's like she doesn't exist outside of the spaces we've shared.
Rubbing my temple, I'm forced to acknowledge the unsettling truth — despite our recent closeness, I know next to nothing about her. Sure, there have been shared laughs, deep conversations, and burning passion, but the core of Valentina, her history, her world, remains a mystery.
It dawns on me that this isn’t mere coincidence. Anyone can have a minimal digital footprint, but Valentina has none at all. It’s almost...professional. Could she be in some form of witness protection? Is she hiding from someone? Is she involved in something more clandestine? The questions pile up, and for the first time since I've known her, I wonder if I'm out of my depth.
With a growl of frustration, I throw my phone on the passenger seat and restart the engine. The rain has picked up again, the droplets hammering on the roof, echoing the turmoil in my head. I can't just let this go. Not when the woman I'm rapidly falling for could be in danger.
Despite my vast network, my reach, and resources, I'm cautious about leveraging them to pry into her past. But I have this nagging feeling that if I don’t, I might regret it later. It's a tightrope walk between my burgeoning feelings and the protective instincts that have kept me alive and on top in this cutthroat world.
As I weave through the city streets, the cold logic of my businessman persona clashes with the infatuated lover. It's clear I need to approach this with tact. Maybe a casual conversation, a few offhand questions during our next meeting. Observe, analyze, understand.
* * *
The sun pierces through the dense canopy of St. Petersburg's buildings, casting their colossal shadows over the city streets. As I stride with purpose, the city seems to move with me, bending to my every whim. That's the beauty of power and influence; the world becomes clay in your hands, ready to be molded.
Slipping out of my sleek, black sedan, I adjust the collar of my tailored suit and turn to face the new day. The past few weeks have been exceedingly fruitful. The old bookstore on the corner of Nevsky Prospekt, the antique shop by the Winter Palace, and that charming little café where Valentina and I shared our first espresso together, all now operate under the protective shadow of the Bratva.
These acquisitions, while seemingly benign, serve a much grander strategy. St. Petersburg is changing, evolving, and with each acquisition, our roots deepen, our influence grows, and our legacy solidifies. My brothers will surely be thrilled. It’s not just about money or territory, but about weaving ourselves into the very fabric of the city, ensuring the Bratva's place for generations to come.
Lost in thought, the jarring buzz of my phone snaps me back to the moment. Retrieving it from my pocket, I squint at the screen, puzzled by the unknown caller. It's rare for an unrecognized number to break through my layers of security, making me both wary and intrigued.
"Hello?" I answer cautiously, eyes darting around, trying to discern if this is part of a bigger play.
“You need to run. Now.”
The line goes dead.
The abrupt disconnection of the call leaves a cold knot of uncertainty in my stomach. The soft, distorted voice wasn't recognizable, but there's a haunting familiarity to it. All the same, I’m now on guard, scanning my surroundings for any hint of danger. Before I can further process the unsettling warning, my peripheral vision captures movement. A group of men, dark eyes narrowing in on me, begin to approach from across the street.
Immediately, every fiber of my being goes on high alert. The purpose in their steps, the glint of metal under jackets, and the unmistakable markings inked on their necks and hands—tattoos of stars, daggers, and various other symbols I've come to associate with one group: the Chechen mob.
Time seems to warp, seconds elongating, becoming minute-long heartbeats. Calculations race through my mind. I'm outnumbered, outgunned, and at a significant disadvantage. As much as every instinct within me screams to stand my ground and fight, my rational mind knows this isn't a fight I can win—especially not here, not in broad daylight.
Without betraying a hint of my internal panic, I pivot smoothly, heading straight for my parked sedan, doing my best to appear as casual as possible. But as I approach, the menacing growl of one of the men ripples through the air, followed by the unmistakable cocking of a firearm. My pace quickens.
The sound of gunfire shatters the midday stillness. The bullets whistle past, slamming into the asphalt and the side of buildings. Panic surges among the bystanders, who start running for cover. I jump into the car, gunning the engine and pulling out into the street.
More gunshots ring out, one bullet piercing the rear window, sending shattered glass flying inside. My heart's pounding in my ears, the adrenaline surging, making everything feel razor-sharp. With one last look through the rear-view mirror, I see the Chechens slowing their pursuit, watching me with predatory, narrowed eyes.
Once I’m a safe distance away, I fish out my encrypted phone, dialing the number I know by heart. It only takes a few rings before my eldest brother, Andrei, picks up.
"Roman," he greets, his voice its usual, steady self. "To what do I owe this call?"
"No pleasantries, Andryusha," I respond, urgency evident in my voice. "I've been ambushed by the Chechens."
Silence, a short but palpable pause. When he speaks again, his tone is noticeably colder. "Are you hurt?"
"Unharmed. But they’ve made a statement. I think I’ve stepped into something bigger than just business acquisitions."
Andrei exhales slowly. "We knew expanding into St. Petersburg would ruffle some feathers, but this is a blatant act of aggression. We'll need to respond, and quickly."
I nod, even though he can't see me. "Agreed. I want to know who tipped them off and who the woman on the phone that warned me was."
