Crowned In Blood and Iron

C H A P T E R

One

R U S L A N A

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her nimble fingertips struck the sleek mahogany desk in a laggard, merciless rhythm, each tap deepening as irritation coiled underneath her placid expression.

Nothing betrayed her as her piercing gaze met another wary pair of verdant eyes, nearly identical to her own. His eyes darted away, faltering beneath her gaze's predatory scrutiny.

For a second, a trace of unease ruined the composure he was fighting desperately to keep.One look told Ruslana everything she needed to know. His ash-blonde hair fell forward as he bowed his head, a silent admission of defeat.

Behind him, the clock wallowed in the silence, its measured ticking sounding like a countdown to his execution.

“ Where is my shipment?”

“I— I tried, Pakhan.” He stuttered, eyes still glued to the floor. “Things went wrong. There was a rat. He tipped them off.”

Her tapping fingers went dead still against the desk. Ruslana breathed out a calculated breath, her finger sliding through her dark, neatly kept hair. She narrowed her eyes at him, her face completely a blank wall.

“You failed me. You were supposed to set an example.”

Silence spread between them.

“I want a name.” She paused, letting the demand hang in the air.

“If they want to test the Volkava name, allow them to see what it costs. I’ll handle the shipment.”

He swallowed tightly, dropping his eyes for a split second before forcing himself to look back up.“

I won’t fail you again, Pakhan.” His hand curled into a tight fist at his side; the fear left his face, replaced by a sudden, cold focus. He would not disappoint her again.

“I’ll find out who betrayed us.” Ruslana leaned back against the plush upholstery. Her exhaustion lasted only a second before her gaze moved back into something hard and familiar

.“Then stop wasting my time. Get out.”

He stalled, wanting to say more; his lips even parted to say more. Ruslana's hard look froze the words right in his throat.Avoiding her, he looked down at the richly stained walnut floor and turned for the exit.

His digits wrapped the polished brass handle. He stopped just before the threshold, his eyes snared by the Volkava crest mounted above.

A silver wolf rested nestled at the center, its head cocked toward the viewer as if tracking him with molten-gold irises. Behind the beast loomed two dark iron swords, deliberately crossed, their heavy blades angled up toward a shattered silver crown.Beneath the wolf, the silver inscription bled meticulously into the wood.

Одна семья. Одна кровь.

One Family. One Blood.

The burden of everything he was expected to inherit.His fingers locked tight around the handle before he finally forced himself through the doorway.

The door snapped shut.

At last, Ruslana let the tension drop from her body. She sank into her seat, her shoulders loosening for the first time all day. She scanned the muted room, confirming the pristine order. Nothing was out of place. She positioned a folder on the mahogany, squaring the edge with the corner of the desk.

Every document had to be aligned with flawless precision.Even her cigar remained exactly where she left it.

Smoke wreathed lazily from the Davidoff in her crystal ashtray, the ember still glowing beneath the tip of white ash. She picked it up, rolling the cigar between her digits, before inhaling the rich, bitter smoke.

The familiar taste stayed against her tongue as she blew out a ring of smoke. Then it hit her— she wasn’t alone. Her second-in-command reclined against the wall, a taciturn, unreadable shadow watching her work.

“Этот мальчишка меня в могилу сведёт” She mutters in Russian. That boy would be the death of her.

His raven hair was perfectly styled, and a manicured beard tracked the hard angles of his jaw. He was dressed almost as impeccably as she was, his dark suit tailored with understated elegance. He strode with the calm confidence of a man who had dedicated years to Ruslana's side.

They shared a lifetime of blood and history, and Lev was the only person alive whom she completely trusted.Lev let out a low, dry breath as he approached her desk, folding his arms.

“He gets his dramatic streak from you.”

“Нет,” Ruslana counted, a faint amused twitch at the corner of her lips. “ He gets that entirely from my brother.”

Unlike everyone who enters this room, Lev wasn't intimidated by her. He knew the woman behind the ruthless reputation.

For the first time since her nephew had walked out, the hard lines of her face started softening. She looked immaculate even in stillness.

Her custom white jacket rested loosely over her shoulders, its crisp lines drawing attention to her sharp, rigid posture. Beneath it, a black button-up shirt was tucked neatly into matching black slacks, the dark fabric falling flawlessly over her frame. Nothing about her appearance was accidental.

Her black stilettos rested under the desk, catching the gleam of the low office light. Lev knew better than anyone that she didn't need a crown to rule a room.

Lev’s mouth quivered. “Rusya”

Her eyes snapped towards him.

“Don’t”

A shade of amusement touched his countenance.

“You care about him.”

“I'm annoyed.”

“You care.” She let out a short chuckle

.“Careful, Lev.”

“Ну вот, проснулся наш огонёк,” Lev answered softly in Russian, moving closer to the desk. There was the spitfire.

When she lifted her cigar to her lips, the burning tip cast a sharp glimmer across the scars on her right hand. With another drag, her eyes fell to her hand; the rough lines wrapped about her knuckles were a daily memento of what she had paid for his life

.Lev’s gaze settled on the silver marks, the impish amusement draining from his face. He knew exactly what she sacrificed to keep him breathing. Ten years ago, his own arrogance had blinded him, landing him right in a rival enforcer's trap.

She had thrown herself between them, using her own arm and forearm to block a brutal downswing from a heavy metal bar.

The impact had crushed the bones in her hand and permanently severed tendons. Months of recovery followed, and Lev stayed next to her through every painful step.The scars persisted long after the pain faded.

Ruslana never regretted putting herself between him and that blow. She peered at Lev now. He was one of the few people alive who still remembered the girl she had been before becoming the Pakhan.

Before the title.

Before the reputation.

Before ZVER.

Her fingers eased their grip around the cigar, pressing into the crystal to snuff it out.

She had been trained to use a gun before she was old enough to grasp what it meant to kill. She knew how to handle a knife, to defend herself, and to turn an opponent's strength against them. Yet, weapons were never her greatest advantage. Her mind was. Back then, behind a keyboard, she had been ZVER.

A name uttered across encrypted channels.

No face. No real name.

Only a ghost capable of breaking into systems, exposing secrets, tracing money, and disappearing without leaving a trail.

Her eyes shifted to the folder sitting at the center of her desk. “The shipment.”

Lev straightened. “What about it?”

She paged through the folder.

“The route. “

He shifted closer to her, glancing over her shoulder at the folder below.

“I thought your nephew handled that.”

“He did.” She pulled out the genuine transport manifest.

“This isn’t the route I approved.”

Lev frowned.

Ruslana placed both papers side by side. “The shipment was supposed to leave through the eastern corridor at midnight. It was rerouted six hours before departure.” Her fingertips rapped the sheet.

“By whom?”

“That,” Ruslana said quietly, “is the problem.”

They looked at the document together in the heavy stillness. “So the rat didn’t just tip them off.”

Ruslana’s eyes lifted to his.

“Нет.” That recognition settled between them. “Someone moved the shipment.”

She closed the folder with an audible thud.

“And they knew exactly where it would be.”

A grim shadow fell over Lev’s face.“

An inside job.”

As Ruslana tilted back in her chair, her eyes floated to the closed door. Her nephew had failed. But perhaps he wasn’t the one who had made the first mistake. Someone inside the Volkova organization had deliberately diverted the shipment. And whoever had done it knew exactly how to hide their tracks.

“Find the route, Lev.”

“Right.” Without saying anything else, he turned toward the door.

“And the shipment?”

“I’ll handle it.”

Because whoever had redirected it had made just one mistake. They had given ZVER a reason to come looking.