Chapter Four.

A sleek black car sped recklessly into the sprawling estate, its tires screeching as it came to an abrupt halt in front of a grand mansion.

The engine growled before going silent, and the driver wasted no time stepping out. With precise movements, he opened the passenger door and then the back door.

From the shadows of the vehicle emerged Viktor Sokolov.

His towering frame was immediately imposing, his long black coat billowing slightly in the cold night breeze.

He adjusted his gloves as his piercing grey eyes scanned the mansion before him.

His face twisted in visible disdain, a mixture of disgust and impatience etched into his features. Without a word, Viktor began to move toward the grand entrance, his steps purposeful and cold.

The doors were already open, as though the house itself was afraid to keep him waiting. Inside, chaos was unfolding.

Several men were kneeling on the marble floor, their heads bowed in submission, trembling as Viktor’s guards held guns to their temples. The air was thick with fear, heavy and suffocating.

Every person in that room knew exactly who Viktor Sokolov was.

The infamous Don of the Russian Mafia. A man whose name sent shivers down spines worldwide. A walking devil, relentless and merciless. His reputation preceded him, and tonight was no exception.

As Viktor entered, his presence was like a dark storm, sucking all the air out of the room.

His sharp eyes quickly fell upon the sight before him—a middle-aged man, visibly shaking, his robe disheveled as he knelt on the floor.

Beside him were his wife and two young adults, a boy and a girl. Their faces were pale, their terror unmistakable.

Viktor paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. Then, with calculated grace, he walked to the luxurious couch in the center of the room.

It was oversized, ornate, almost throne-like. Fitting for a king—or, in Viktor’s case, a devil.

He sat down, crossing one leg over the other, exuding an air of absolute control.

He leaned back, his fingers drumming against the armrest as he regarded the man on the floor with a smirk that sent chills through the room.

The man, Brian McCain, struggled to find his voice. His lips trembled as he stammered, "M-Mr. Sokolov... I-I didn't know you arrived—"

"Yes.." Viktor interrupted, his voice low and smooth, with just a hint of menace.

"I love surprises." He let out a dry, humorless chuckle, and the sound was anything but reassuring. It was a laugh that signaled danger, not amusement.

Brian swallowed hard, his body trembling like a leaf. He wasn’t naive; he knew Viktor’s laugh wasn’t one of mirth. It was a warning.

Without breaking eye contact, Viktor stood and walked toward Brian. His polished boots clicked against the marble floor, each step deliberate, echoing ominously in the vast hall.

He stopped directly in front of the man, bending slightly so their eyes were level. Viktor smiled—an unsettling, cold smile that made Brian’s blood run cold.

"You are a very brave man, Brian McCain." Viktor said softly, his voice laced with mockery. He straightened and turned his back, his hands clasped behind him as he stared out the large glass windows.

"Brave enough to make me travel all the way to New York. Special, isn’t it?" His words were deceptively calm, yet they cut through the air like a blade.

Brian began to weep openly, his entire body quaking with fear.

Viktor’s tone darkened as he continued, his Russian accent thickening with each word.

"Brian McCain." he said, his voice now a chilling growl, "you came to me with a deal—a mechanical deal, you called it. You made promises." He turned his head slightly, just enough for his piercing gaze to fall on the trembling man. "Did you forget those promises?"

Brian opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"And not just promises." Viktor continued, stepping closer now, his voice dropping even lower, dangerously quiet.

"You borrowed money. Six figures. From me. And yet, here we are, one year later. You promised me results. You promised me my money. And what do I have?" He paused, his jaw tightening. "Nothing."

Viktor’s back straightened as he faced Brian fully, his towering presence casting a shadow over the man and his family.

The Don’s voice was like thunder now, reverberating through the room.

"You thought you could delay me. Lie to me. Waste my time." He leaned down again, this time gripping Brian’s chin and forcing him to look into his cold, unfeeling eyes.

"Tell me, Brian." Viktor whispered, his tone as sharp as a blade. "Do you know what happens to people who waste my time?"

Brian whimpered, his entire body convulsing with terror. He tried to speak, but his voice was barely a whisper. "P-please... I-I can explain—"

Viktor’s grip tightened painfully, cutting him off.

"You think I care for your explanations? Do you think I traveled halfway across the world to hear excuses?" He released Brian abruptly, letting him collapse back onto the floor.

Turning to his guards, Viktor nodded once. The men holding guns to the kneeling guards shoot them all, a silent but deadly threat, Brian's wife and children cry out in fear.

Viktor’s cold gaze swept across the room, his smirk returning.

"You have one hour." Viktor said, his voice icy and commanding.

"One hour to prove your worth to me, Brian McCain. One hour to fix this mess you’ve created. After that..." He trailed off, letting the silence speak volumes.

Brian sobbed, clinging to the hem of Viktor’s coat. "Please, Mr. Sokolov! I-I'll get the money! I’ll fix it, I swear!"

Viktor yanked his coat free, his expression unchanging.

"You have one hour." he repeated. Then, without another glance, he strode out of the room, his guards following closely behind. The sound of his boots faded into the distance, leaving the McCain family trembling in the suffocating aftermath of his visit and bodyguards dead bodies.