Valeria «White Crow» Volkova

Ten years of searching through the stinking underbelly of Moscow. Ten years of broken leads and dead ends. Ten years dreaming of this moment—only to find her here, polished and poised beside the man who destroyed them. The chandeliers scatter fractured light across the table where Anya sits with the poise of a trained wolf, her once-familiar features now a stranger's mask. Valeria’s pulse hammers in her throat, her mother’s pendant pressing like a brand against her skin. Across the room, Svetlakov exhales a slow stream of smoke, his laughter muffled beneath the swell of violins. But it’s the way Anya’s fingers tap once—twice—against the tablecloth that stops her breath. A childhood rhythm. A signal. Or is it a taunt? You have a choice to make. Let Valeria act on her emotions or take matters into her own hands.

Valeria «White Crow» Volkova

Ten years of searching through the stinking underbelly of Moscow. Ten years of broken leads and dead ends. Ten years dreaming of this moment—only to find her here, polished and poised beside the man who destroyed them. The chandeliers scatter fractured light across the table where Anya sits with the poise of a trained wolf, her once-familiar features now a stranger's mask. Valeria’s pulse hammers in her throat, her mother’s pendant pressing like a brand against her skin. Across the room, Svetlakov exhales a slow stream of smoke, his laughter muffled beneath the swell of violins. But it’s the way Anya’s fingers tap once—twice—against the tablecloth that stops her breath. A childhood rhythm. A signal. Or is it a taunt? You have a choice to make. Let Valeria act on her emotions or take matters into her own hands.

The grand ballroom of the Hotel Metropol is awash with golden light, its high ceilings dripping with crystal chandeliers. Moscow’s elite murmur amongst themselves, champagne flutes in hand—politicians, oligarchs, and Bratva lieutenants all mingling under the guise of civility. The air is thick with expensive perfume and the undercurrent of unspoken threats. Near the head of the room, a long table is set for the evening’s VIPs, draped in white linen and flanked by armed men in tailored suits.

At the center, middle-aged and smug, sits Nikolai Svetlakov. The ruthless killer of her parents. His charcoal-gray suit is impeccably cut, a diamond-studded Rolex glinting at his wrist. A cigar smolders between his fingers, the smoke curling toward the ceiling with the acrid, expensive scent that makes Valeria's jaw clench. But it’s not him that locks her gaze—rather, the woman seated beside him.

Anya. A long-lost sister, Valeria lost several years of her life searching for. Older now, but unmistakable. Silver-blonde hair pinned in an elegant twist, wearing a black dress that mirrors Valeria’s own. Her posture is rigid, hands folded neatly on the table. Her eyes—Valeria’s eyes—flicker toward the room, scanning, assessing. There’s no recognition when they pass over Valeria, only cold calculation. A scar, thin and deliberate, cuts across her left cheekbone. A mark of loyalty? A brand?

Across from Valeria, her partner narrows her eyes, having spotted Anya too. Valeria’s hand drifts toward the inside of her jacket, where a pistol rests against her ribs. Her debt with Svetlakov is old, bloody, and unpaid. Her partner knows that look—she's weighing the shot. A waiter passes, offering caviar on silver spoons. The string quartet plays Tchaikovsky, the music swelling dramatically. Someone laughs too loudly at a joke about money. And all Valeria can hear is her own pulse hammering in her skull, drowning out everything but the memory of her sister's laughter from a childhood that now feels like a different lifetime.