Chapter 1: “The Wolf and the Spy” — the opening of Crimson Vows.

The night over Saint Petersburg was quiet — too quiet for a city that never slept.

Snow fell in slow spirals, wrapping the streets in ghostly white. The moonlight reflected on the frozen canal like silver glass, and far in the distance, the Volkov mansion stood tall, ancient and beautiful, like a beast watching over its prey.

Aria Ivanova pressed her gloved hands tighter around the camera. Her breath misted in the cold air as she crouched behind the iron gates.

For months she’d followed the Volkov family — Russia’s most dangerous crime syndicate. Drugs, assassinations, money laundering — every dark rumor in the city whispered their name.

But tonight wasn’t about rumors. Tonight, she wanted proof.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears.

She waited until the guards made their usual round, then slipped through the side gate Lena had unlocked remotely.

Inside, the world changed — silence so deep it felt wrong. The air smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and old wood. Marble statues lined the path, their eyes hollow in the moonlight.

One photo, she thought. One file. One secret.

That was all she needed to end the Volkov empire.

But the mansion seemed to breathe. The corridors stretched endlessly. She moved past paintings of grim men with pale eyes — the Volkov ancestors, each more terrifying than the last. Their gazes followed her.

Her phone buzzed once. A text from Lena:

📩 In and out, Aria. You’ve got 10 minutes before cameras reset.

Aria’s fingers trembled as she crept into the study. It was exactly as the leaked blueprints showed — oak shelves, a huge desk, and an old fireplace that flickered low.

She started snapping photos.

Weapons locked in display cases. Stacks of ledgers marked with coded numbers. She smiled.

“Got you,” she whispered.

Then — a sound.

Soft. Slow. Footsteps.

Her body went rigid.

She turned off the camera light, hiding behind the tall curtains near the window. Her heart raced.

The door creaked open.

Someone walked in — tall, steady, powerful. She could hear the sound of boots against marble, the click of a lighter, the soft exhale of smoke.

A deep voice, calm but dangerous, spoke in Russian.

“Do you know what happens to thieves in my house?”

Aria froze.

He was close now — close enough that she could smell his cologne: cedar, smoke, and something darker, like blood.

A hand snapped the curtain aside, and she was yanked out roughly. Her camera fell, hitting the floor with a crack.

Her eyes met his.

Nikolai Volkov.

He was taller than she imagined. A black suit, open collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, veins tracing down his forearms. His eyes — icy gray, sharp, and unreadable — studied her like she was prey he’d been waiting for.

A faint scar cut across his jaw. His expression was calm, but his grip on her arm was iron.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

Aria bit her lip, forcing herself to stay defiant. “No one.”

Nikolai’s mouth curved slightly. “A brave liar.”

He picked up her camera and scrolled through the photos. His face darkened.

“So you’re not only a thief,” he said, voice low, “you’re a spy.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m a journalist.”

“Ah,” he murmured, stepping closer until she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. “So you steal truth instead of money.”

The faintest smirk touched his lips — but there was no warmth in it.

“You think I’ll let you walk out of here with this?”

“I don’t think you’ll kill a woman just for a few pictures,” she said, though her voice wavered.

His eyes flickered — not with pity, but amusement.

“You underestimate what kind of monster I am.”

He lifted her chin with his fingers, forcing her to meet his eyes.

For a moment, she saw something else there — a strange shadow, a flicker of pain buried deep.

Then he dropped his hand.

“Take her to the cellar,” he ordered coldly.

Two guards appeared instantly. They grabbed her arms, dragging her down the hallway as she struggled.

“Nikolai!” she yelled, hating that her voice cracked. “You can’t just—”

“Watch me,” he said softly.

The cellar wasn’t a dungeon — it was worse.

Cold stone walls, dim yellow light, and an eerie stillness that made her skin crawl.

The guards left her tied to a chair, locking the door behind them.

Aria’s wrists burned against the ropes. She twisted, trying to free herself.

Somewhere above, she heard the echo of piano notes — haunting, slow, like a lullaby for ghosts.

Her fear deepened.

This house was too quiet. Too perfect.

Something about it felt alive.

After what felt like hours, the door opened again.

Nikolai stepped inside, no guards this time. He had taken off his jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled up, showing a tattoo — a wolf wrapped around a dagger.

He walked slowly toward her, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Who are you working for, solnyshko?” he asked softly. Little sun.

“I told you. I’m independent.”

He tilted his head. “Independent journalists don’t break into mafia estates at midnight.”

She bit her lip, refusing to answer.

He leaned closer, his voice a dangerous whisper. “You’re lucky I find you interesting.”

Aria glared at him. “Let me go.”

“Hmm,” he said, circling her like a predator. “You come into my home, you steal from me, and then you give orders?”

She stayed silent.

Then he stopped behind her and leaned close enough that she could feel his breath against her ear.

“Tell me, Aria Ivanova,” he whispered, “why shouldn’t I bury you in my garden tonight?”

Her name on his lips made her stomach twist.

She turned her head slightly. “Because if you kill me, the whole world will know what you are.”

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then — laughter. Low, deep, and dangerous.

“You think the world doesn’t already know?” he said. “They just prefer not to see.”

He moved in front of her again. His gaze softened — just barely. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied.

“Good,” he murmured. “You should be afraid for yourself, not of me.”

Her brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost reverent.

Then his voice changed — lower, colder.

“You remind me of her.”

“Who?”

He blinked once, like he’d said something he didn’t mean. “No one.”

She studied him, curiosity mixing with fear. Beneath his coldness, she saw something broken.

But before she could speak, a sound echoed through the hall — faint footsteps, followed by a woman’s voice whispering in Russian.

Nikolai turned sharply. “Irina?”

His face went pale. The air seemed to freeze.

Aria frowned. “Who’s Irina?”

He didn’t answer. He looked… haunted.

Then, suddenly, the lights flickered.

For a moment, the shadows moved — like something passed between them. Aria felt a chill run down her spine. A cold whisper brushed her ear, though no one was near.

Run before he loves you.

Her heart stopped. “Did you hear that?”

Nikolai’s jaw tightened. “No one’s here.”

But his eyes said otherwise.

He untied her wrists slowly, still watching the dark corners of the cellar.

Then, turning back to her, his voice softened. “You’ll stay here tonight.”

“What? I’m not—”

“You step one foot outside, and my men will shoot you,” he said simply. “So choose: stay where it’s safe, or die in the snow.”

“Safe?” she repeated bitterly. “With you?”

He smiled faintly. “Safer than the ghosts outside.”

She shivered. He wasn’t joking.

He walked toward the door, then paused, his hand on the knob. “Aria,” he said without looking back, “next time you come for secrets… bring something worth dying for.”

And then he left her alone — in that silent, haunted cellar.

The night dragged on. Aria sat by the dim lamp, rubbing her wrists, trying to calm her racing heart.

Somewhere in the mansion above, she could hear faint laughter, footsteps, whispers — all blending together.

But at one point, she heard something else. A woman’s soft cry. Then… a lullaby.

She followed the sound, pushing the door open carefully.

The corridor was empty. The air turned colder the further she walked.

She stopped when she saw it — a portrait of a woman in a black dress, her eyes identical to Nikolai’s. A small nameplate beneath it read:

Irina Volkov. 1968–2002.

The same name Nikolai had whispered.

As Aria stared, she swore the woman’s painted eyes shimmered — and her lips curved into the faintest smile.

Then, just as quickly, the air behind her shifted.

A hand clamped around her wrist.

Nikolai.

His expression was unreadable. “I told you not to leave.”

“You didn’t tell me your mother’s portrait would start moving.”

He looked at her sharply. “What did you see?”

“Her. Smiling. Like she’s alive.”

For a moment, the mask slipped. His eyes darkened, voice a low whisper. “Don’t ever mention her again.”

Aria met his stare — unflinching. “You’re afraid of her.”

He smiled thinly. “You’re braver than most. Foolish, but brave.”

He stepped closer, his hand still on her wrist. His grip wasn’t harsh this time, just firm — possessive. “From now on, you don’t go anywhere unless I say so. You breathe when I allow it.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped, trying to pull free.

His eyes locked onto hers. “You wanted to play with wolves, solnyshko. Don’t cry when one bites.”

And then — before she could speak — he leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.

“You belong to me now.”

Her heart pounded violently, anger and fear tangled inside her.

He released her hand and walked away, leaving her trembling — but not from fear this time.

As his footsteps faded, Aria whispered to herself, “You don’t own me.”

But somewhere in the depths of the mansion, a faint voice — that same haunting whisper — answered:

He already does.

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