Loving Muza

The morning begins like any other. Quiet. Predictable. Slightly suffocating. The sun barely filters through the heavy curtains, and the room smells of freshly brewed coffee and the routine of a perfect life… at least on the surface. I reach out and grab the edge of the blanket, pulling it over my head for just two more minutes of peace. Two minutes just for me. But the clock on the nightstand reminds me, mercilessly that time doesn't wait. And neither does life. “Eva, it’s late. If you don’t get up now, you’ll be running to the office again,” Sean says from the edge of the bed, already dressed in his perfectly ironed shirt. Always impeccable. Always calm. Always... the same. “Yeah, yeah… five more minutes,” I mumble, eyes still closed. Sean chuckles briefly, without pushing further. I like that about him. Boringly patient. Boringly polite. Boringly… predictable. Ten minutes later, I head down to the kitchen, hurriedly dressed. My blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun, and Sean throws me a quick glance before going back to his routine, while I pour coffee into my favorite mug. “Got any important meetings today?” he asks, flipping through the morning paper. “Nothing unusual,” I reply absently. Nothing is unusual. For months, my life has felt like a song stuck on repeat. My marriage to Sean is… stable. Quiet. Exactly what I once wished for. But now… “Would you like to go out for dinner tonight?” he continues, lifting his eyes from the newspaper. “Yeah, sure.” My answers are mechanical, almost instinctive. I love him, of course. He’s a good man. A perfect husband. And yet… deep down, something is missing. Something I can’t even put into words. Sean smiles, satisfied, and stands up from the table. “All right. I’ll let you finish your coffee. See you tonight. Have an easy day.”

“You too.” I watch him leave, and once the door closes behind him, it’s just me and the silence of the apartment. Soon I have to be at the office. Another day of wearing my professional smile and pretending everything is exactly how it should be. But deep in my soul, I feel something is about to change.

Washington, D.C. traffic is just as packed as always, but nothing shakes off the numbness of this morning. After two coffees and a dull weather report on the radio, I finally arrive at the FBI headquarters. The massive concrete building on Pennsylvania Avenue greets me with the same cold indifference as ever. I hurry through security, but before I can reach my office, a young and slightly unsure voice stops me. “Agent Daniels?” I turn around and find a young man in a flawless suit, his badge clipped to his jacket pocket. Probably one of the new recruits. “Yes,” I reply, giving him a quick once-over. “Chief Cooper wants to see you in the briefing room. Right away,” he adds, visibly tense. I thank him briefly and head toward the room. In the hallways of the FBI headquarters, every step feels like a routine carved in stone. The conference room is already filled with several agents reviewing files, the scattered papers across the table telling me everything I need to know before anyone says a word. I spot Rivera in the corner, leaning against the edge of the table, that familiar grave expression on his face, a look he wears every time something goes wrong. We've worked together for years, and his face is always the first warning sign that things are about to get complicated. “Daniels, come,” Cooper calls without much introduction, motioning for me to step closer. I take the seat next to Rivera, while Cooper adjusts the folder in front of him before continuing. “A fourth victim was found in the park this morning. Same signature. Same killer,” Cooper states plainly, without a hint of doubt. A heavy silence falls over the room. Rivera shoots me a quick glance, and unease begins to stir in my gut. “The field team is already on-site. We’ll have all the details in a few hours, but the preliminaries are clear. The Latin word is present again—on the body. Just like in the other cases,” Cooper says, flipping through a few pages. “Any witness statements?” Rivera asks. “Nothing so far. The victim was found too early.” Cooper pauses for a moment, scanning the room with a serious gaze. “We need to speed up the investigation. We can’t treat this case as an isolated incident anymore. The killer is already playing with us. If we don’t catch him soon, it’s going to get worse.” I lower my eyes to the file in front of me, but Cooper’s words echo in my mind. Fourth victim. Same strange Latin word. A killer who knows exactly how to provoke us. While the other agents continue their discussions, I gently bite my lip, a nervous tic I’ve never managed to shake. I can already feel it, this investigation is going to take us down a dark road. One that won’t end easily.

I watch Cooper as he rolls a pen between his fingers, eyes fixed on the folder in front of him. He’s clearly thinking... thinking too much and, the oppressive silence in the room is becoming unbearable. Rivera clears his throat, trying to break the tension. I meet his eyes for a second, and he simply raises his eyebrows, a silent signal that he feels it too: something’s about to happen. Something serious. Cooper pulls his chair closer to the table and takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself. “We need to change our approach,” he finally says, his voice cold and calculated. All eyes are on him now. No one dares to speak. “The killer is one step ahead of us. And if we want to catch him before he strikes again… we need help.”

Help? Cooper doesn’t ask for help. Ever. I feel a knot tightening in my stomach. I watch him closely, trying to figure out where he’s going with this. “From outside?” asks a younger agent in the corner of the room, confusion written all over his face. “Yes,” Cooper replies curtly. “But not the kind of people you’re thinking of. Not profilers. Not your average psychologists…” His voice grows heavier, and his eyes move slowly from one of us to the next. The silence that follows each of his words is starting to hurt—tight and unbearable. The tension in the room is palpable. Rivera crosses his arms, leaning against the edge of the table, narrowing his gaze. “Then who?” he asks, a note of impatience in his voice. Cooper doesn’t answer immediately. He sets his pen on the table and rubs his forehead, as if the decision he’s about to speak aloud will change everything. He lifts his head, and his dark, determined eyes meet each of us, one by one. “This won’t be an easy decision…” he begins, then pauses, letting his words hang in the air. “It will be controversial. Dangerous. But it’s our only shot.”

“Who are you talking about, Cooper?” I press, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. Cooper’s gaze sweeps across the room again, measuring every reaction, then he takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair. “Before I tell you… I want you to understand something,” he says, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “The man I’m talking about… is not an ally. He’s a threat in himself. He’s the last person the FBI ever wanted to see walking free.” The room goes completely silent. No one dares interrupt. Cooper leans forward again, locking eyes with each of us. “And yet, he’s the only one who can help us.” A chill runs down my spine, but I force myself to keep a calm expression. “Who is it?” Rivera asks, his tone sharpening. Cooper pauses. A long pause. One that feels like it stretches into eternity. Finally, he wets his lips and says clearly, firmly: “Sasha Kovalenko.”

Time seems to stop. I lock my eyes on Cooper, trying to process what he just said. The name Kovalenko carries far too many bloody stories to be just a coincidence. What the hell is someone like him doing in this conversation? A heavy silence falls after Cooper says the name. No one dares to speak first, as if simply mentioning Sasharov Kovalenko might summon him into the room. Rivera is the first to break the silence. “Kovalenko? You mean… Sasharov Kovalenko?” he asks, almost whispering, like he’s trying to convince himself he misheard. “Yes,” Cooper confirms, without hesitation. A low whisper spreads among the agents, but no one seems willing to speak too loudly. I glance at Rivera, who’s clenching his jaw, then at the others, who are exchanging uneasy looks. “God… Kovalenko,” someone mutters from the far end of the table. “The man who left behind more bodies than all the Bratva families combined…” another agent murmurs, voice grave. “Former head of the Russian Bratva,” Rivera adds, shooting me a brief look. “The bloodiest leader they’ve ever had. And the smartest.”

“And the hardest to catch,” another agent adds, trying to mask the nervousness in his voice. “The FBI, Interpol, every agency out there has been after him for years, but none of us ever managed to put him behind bars.”

“And we never will,” Cooper says firmly. “We have no evidence. No witnesses. No one willing to talk.” Rivera lets out a dry laugh, void of any humor. “Of course not. Every witness who ever had the misfortune of knowing him ended up in graves no one will ever find.”

“And now he’s a psychologist,” a young agent dares to add. “Owns his own clinic, works with the rich, the politicians, the billionaires. He counsels them all. He’s got them in the palm of his hand… and no one can touch him.”

“A devil in an expensive suit,” Rivera whispers. “With a charming smile and a PhD in psychology.”

“A devil who’s become even more dangerous,” I add. “He no longer commands an army, but now he controls people’s minds.” Silence settles again, just for a moment. Each of us lost in our own thoughts. Kovalenko’s story is well known in our world, but rarely spoken out loud. Rivera looks at me again, turning a pen between his fingers. “And now we’re calling on him to help us? We’re really putting our fate in the hands of a former Bratva boss?”

“We have no choice,” Cooper cuts in, ending the discussion. “He’s the only man who understands the mind of a killer like this. If we want to catch the murderer, we have to play this card.” The room falls still. We all understand the risk—but we know just as well that this time, we have no other option. I lean back against the chair and take a deep breath. “Then… let’s see if the devil’s willing to come down from his ivory tower and give us a hand,” I say, lacing my voice with a touch of sarcasm. Cooper locks eyes with me and gives a faint smile. “The devil always has time for a good game, Daniels.”

Silence falls again. Heavy. Almost ritualistic. Like a silent prayer before an execution. We’re all thinking the same thing. The same name. Sasharov Kovalenko. The Devil. Rivera is the one who finally breaks the silence, raising an eyebrow with a crooked grin. “Okay… so how do we contact him? Send him an email? Or hit him up on LinkedIn? ‘Hey Kovalenko, want to help us catch a killer? Thanks, the FBI team.’” The short laugh that escapes my chest is unintentional, but Cooper remains unimpressed. His expression stays serious as he responds, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world: “We go to his house.” Silence again. I glance at Rivera, who meets my eyes, and I know exactly what he’s thinking: We’re going to his house. To the devil’s house. Sure. What could possibly go wrong? “His house?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “Exactly,” Cooper confirms calmly. “His mansion’s in an exclusive neighborhood. Not isolated. He has neighbors. You could say he lives among the elite—wealthy beyond reason. But honestly, I think they all say their prayers every night, hoping the devil doesn’t knock on their door.”

Rivera lets out a short laugh. “Oh, wonderful. What’s more relaxing than having a former Bratva boss as a neighbor? I can just picture him hosting a barbecue. ‘Hey neighbor, want a slice of meat? Or would you prefer to disappear forever?’” I cover my mouth with my hand, but the laugh escapes before I can stop it. “And what if he doesn’t let us in?” I ask, still amused. Cooper looks at me, calm as always, and offers a faint smile. “If the devil doesn’t open the door, let’s just pray he’s not home.” Rivera bursts out laughing. “God… we’re really gonna need luck tonight. A lot of it.”

“We’ll manage,” Cooper says, trying to reassure him—though his tone is far from reassuring. “We’re going together. You, me, and Daniels. Tonight.” Rivera rolls his eyes and leans his head back against the chair. “Oh, perfect. A little evening trip to the devil’s mansion. Every FBI agent’s dream, really.” I rest my hands on the table and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “So… tonight. The three of us. At Kovalenko’s mansion,” I repeat, as if trying to convince myself it’s real. “Wonderful.” Cooper gathers his files and stands up from the table. “Good luck, agents. We’re going to need it.”

Evening falls, and we… begin a journey into the unknown. Or rather, to the devil’s house itself, as I’ve come to affectionately call it in my mind. Rivera’s behind the wheel. Cooper sits in the passenger seat, calm and focused as always, while I’m in the backseat, wondering how the hell I ended up in a story that feels straight out of a gangster-horror movie with FBI agents. “You know… maybe we should’ve thought about writing our wills before we left,” Rivera says with that ironic smile of his, the one that, always makes me question whether he’s serious or just trying to scare me. “Too late for that,” Cooper replies without blinking. “If we end up needing a will, we won’t get the chance to write one.” Rivera lets out a short laugh. “Wonderful, boss. You’re a real ray of sunshine.”

I rest my head against the headrest and stare out the window, watching the city lights fade as we get closer to the exclusive neighborhood where Kovalenko lives. “Have you ever thought that instead of catching criminals, maybe we are the criminals?” Rivera asks, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. “I mean, let’s be honest… who willingly knocks on the door of a former Bratva boss?”

“FBI agents with no survival instinct,” I answer dryly, making him laugh. “Exactly. We like living dangerously,” he adds, shrugging. We approach the entrance to Kovalenko’s neighborhood. Discreet security, but alert. Massive houses, all hidden behind elegant, well-guarded gates. “There it is,” Cooper says, pointing to a long driveway flanked by soft lights and perfectly trimmed trees. Kovalenko’s mansion is exactly what you’d expect from a former mob boss turned therapist for the rich. Imposing. Mysterious. And… just a little too quiet. Rivera lets out a low whistle. “And here I thought psychologists lived modest lives. What a fool I was…”

“Modest, for him, probably means only five bedrooms and a heated indoor pool,” I mutter, eyeing the place skeptically. Rivera stops the car in front of a massive wrought iron gate and glances at Cooper. “So… who’s ringing the buzzer?” he asks with mock martyrdom. Cooper doesn’t answer right away. He looks at him, then at me, with that same infuriating calm. “I’ll ring. You two just try not to look like people who’d drop dead if the door suddenly swings open.”

Rivera bursts out laughing. “You know… I didn’t think I’d die on a mission at a shrink’s front door, but hey, life’s full of surprises.” We get out of the car. The air is cold, and the darkness around us makes the place feel even more sinister than it probably is. Cooper presses the buzzer at the gate. “Good luck, boss,” Rivera whispers, crossing himself. I clasp my hands together, pretending to pray too—though honestly, I’m not sure if God handles house calls to former Bratva figures.“Too late to turn back, huh?” I ask, a cold shiver running down my spine. “Too late,” Cooper confirms. Rivera pats my shoulder with a wide grin. “Welcome to hell, Daniels. Let’s hope the devil’s in a good mood tonight.”

Cooper presses the buzzer on the massive wrought iron gate. A brief buzz, followed by a cold, calm voice that sends chills straight down my spine. “Who is it?” No “Good evening.” No “How can I help you?” Just “Who is it?”—as if anyone pressing that button could very well be their last. Cooper doesn’t hesitate. “FBI.” Silence. A silence that lingers just a few seconds too long to be comfortable. Then the gate creaks open. “And just like that, we’re walking into the devil’s courtyard,” Rivera mutters beside me, crossin ghimself for the second time tonight. “If I die, make sure my tombstone says: ‘Killed by a psychologist.’”

I follow them in, pulling my coat tighter around me. The courtyard is flawless—white stone paving, soft lighting. Everything is too neat, too perfect… just like the man who lives here. The massive front door opens slowly, and standing in the doorway is Sasharov Kovalenko. He is exactly as I imagined him—tall, imposing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a glimpse of the tattoos spread across his chest. He smiles, but not with warmth. He smiles like a man who knows exactly how dangerous he is. “Good evening,” he says, his voice calm, with a trace of amusement. “The FBI at my door. How delightful. Tell me… are you here to arrest me?”

Rivera is the first to react. He stops abruptly, raises his hands, and says in a theatrical tone: “If that’s the plan, Mr. Kovalenko, you should know, I was just passing by. I’m only their driver.” I barely manage to swallow a laugh, but Sasha’s expression remains cold as he studies us carefully. “Cooper. Always a pleasure,” he continues, completely ignoring Rivera’s performance. “Mr. Kovalenko,” Cooper replies, extending his hand with the kind of quiet confidence that always manages to impress me. “Allow me to introduce Agent Eva Daniels and Agent Michael Rivera.”

Sasha looks at each of us in turn, assessing us like pawns on his personal chessboard. He tilts his head slightly and smiles again. “Daniels. Rivera. An honor to welcome you into my humble home,” he says, gesturing theatrically toward the massive mansion behind him. “Humble, yeah,” Rivera mutters, glancing around. “Like Versailles. Just… creepier.” Sasha fixes him with a piercing look—but lets out a short laugh. “Versailles, you say? Hmm… I’ll take that as a compliment. All I’m missing is the ballroom. Maybe I’ll build one.” Rivera shakes his head, pretending to be scandalized. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. Just add a special room for FBI agents who come here and… survive,” Rivera adds with a smirk.

At last, Sasha steps aside and gestures for us to enter. “Come in. Let’s see how I can help you… without killing you, of course,” he says with a smile that sends another chill down my spine. As we cross the threshold, Rivera leans in and whispers: “If the power goes out, I’m jumping out a window. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I nudge him lightly, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. The real adventure is just beginning. We step into an enormous living room, where every piece of furniture looks like it came straight out of a luxury catalog. The couch he gestures toward is so perfect, I feel guilty for even sitting on it. Rivera settles beside me—cautiously, like a man afraid he might trigger a trap.

Sasha takes a seat in a massive armchair across from us, resting his elbows on the arms and watching us closely, like a psychologist waiting for us to start confessing. “So then, gentlemen… and lady,” he says, his eyes pausing on me for a moment. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit to my humble home?” Rivera lets out a theatrical sigh. “If this is humble, I live in a shoebox.” Sasha tilts his head and offers a subtle smile. “It’s important to live comfortably, Agent Rivera. Life is short. Especially for some.” Rivera blinks a few times and leans back, muttering, “Jesus… could you at least try to threaten us a little more subtly?”

Cooper clears his throat, trying to steer the conversation toward a more serious tone. He pulls a file from his briefcase and hands it to Sasha as if it were radioactive. “We’re here… for this,” he says, visibly more tense than usual. Sasha takes the file without haste and opens it. His eyes scan the photographs of the four victims, his composure completely unshaken. “Impressive,” he says, flipping a page. “But I’m afraid I don’t offer postmortem counseling.”

Rivera buries his face in his hands, whispering to me, “It’s official. I’m going to die laughing.” Sasha looks up, lacing his fingers beneath his chin. “So, tell me… what makes you believe that I, a humble psychologist, can help you with this?” Cooper takes a deep breath, as if every word he’s about to say requires Herculean effort. “This killer… leaves cryptic messages. We thought maybe… with your expertise… you might understand what’s really going on.” Sasha lets out a soft laugh—calm and cold, just like his gaze. “Ah, of course. I’m an expert in cryptic messages now. I should expand my list of services.” Rivera raises his hand, like a kid in class. “By the way, if you do that, can you also add ‘Getting FBI agents out of impossible situations’? I think there’s a big market for that.”

Sasha stares at him silently for a few seconds—then smiles. “I like you, Rivera. You’ve got a sense of humor. That’ll serve you well… if you survive long enough.” Rivera glances at me and whispers, “If I don’t make it, just drop me off in front of FBI headquarters with a note: It was his last mission.” Sasha looks at the file again, then back at us. “Alright. Let’s see what we can do. But I warn you… mind games are my specialty.” A funereal silence settles over Kovalenko’s luxurious living room, broken only by the soft rustle of paper.

Sasha flips through the pages slowly, deliberately, his gaze gliding over every detail with an almost morbid fascination. Rivera shifts on the couch like he’s sitting on pins and needles, and I… For the first time, I allow myself to truly study the man sitting before us. Sasharov Kovalenko. Tall. Dark-haired. Handsome in a dangerous, almost demonic way. His features are sharp, unforgiving, sculpted to intimidate, not to charm. Strong, with a body that could make a Greek god feel insecure. But it’s not his beauty that draws me in… it’s the darkness he radiates. He’s the kind of man who can command a room with a single glance. The kind who could destroy an entire world with a smile. His eyes, green, like shattered glass—gleamed with beauty… but stare too long, and they'd cut you. My gaze drifts, almost involuntarily, to his left hand, where long, strong fingers rest on the corner of the file.

The letters tattooed across his knuckles catch my attention. M-U-Z-A. A word permanently carved into his skin. A name, most likely. And one that seems to mean far more than he’d ever admit. Rivera leans toward me and whispers, “Daniels, what are you doing? Studying the psychologist or wondering if you should ask for his autograph?” I shoot him a quick glare and try to focus on the file, but my eyes instinctively drift back to Sasha’s hand. Meanwhile, Sasha turns another page, a small smile flickering on his lips, as if he’s just found something intriguing. “Fascinating,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “What’s fascinating?” Rivera asks, raising an eyebrow. “Please, don’t keep all the terrifying revelations to yourself, Mr. Kovalenko. We’re here to share the horror.”

Sasha doesn’t answer right away. He closes the file, rests an elbow on his knee, and laces his fingers beneath his chin, looking at each of us in turn. “There are many fascinating things in this file… but the most fascinating is that the killer seems obsessed with fine details,” he says, smiling faintly. “Almost… artistic, I’d say.” Rivera leans back and scoffs. “Artistic. Wonderful. Another psychopath with aesthetic sense. Good thing we’ve got your expertise. If we find out he paints in his spare time, we can open an art gallery.”

Sasha lets out a brief laugh and reaches out, his fingers lightly playing with the edge of the file. “Maybe we should. I can already picture the title: The Darkness of the Mind. An FBI exhibition.”

“Lovely,” Rivera mutters. “I’m reserving my ticket to the opening.” I try to keep a straight face, but the scene is too absurd to resist. Cooper, however, remains stone-faced. “So, Mr. Kovalenko, can you help us?” Cooper asks directly, trying to bring the conversation back to solid ground. Sasha smiles again and lifts the file. “Of course. Gladly. But I warn you… you may not like the answers you’ll get.” Rivera covers his face with his hand. “Of course. Because nothing tonight can be simple.”

The silence that follows Sasha’s last line is so deep, I half expect to hear a clock ticking—if he even had one in the room. Cooper clears his throat and, for the first time tonight, seems slightly hesitant. “Sasharov, we know you’re not someone who takes orders. And truthfully… we’re not asking you to. But if you choose to work with us… we’ll make things more… comfortable for you.” I raise an eyebrow, trying to predict where this is going. Cooper glances at the file in Sasha’s hand and continues: “We can offer you your own office at FBI headquarters—fully equipped. You’ll have access to all our resources. You’ll work directly with us, with full access to case information.”

For the first time, Rivera stays quiet. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, and his expression has shifted from constant sarcasm to a seriousness that’s almost… worried. Cooper has just proposed giving the devil… a seat in our sanctuary. An FBI office. Sasha rests his chin on his laced fingers, studying Cooper with a small, nearly imperceptible smile. “Fascinating,” he murmurs. “So… my own office, you say?”

"Exactly," Cooper confirms. "And all the resources necessary for this investigation. No restrictions." The silence is nearly unbearable. Rivera clasps his hands over his knees, and I straighten up, feeling the air grow heavier. Sasha blinks slowly, then places the file on the table and leans back, gazing at us all with that unshakable calm of a man who knows he's the one holding all the power in the room. "Tempting," he admits. "Though I have to wonder... how many of your colleagues will be thrilled to have a former Bratva boss in the office next door?" Rivera clears his throat, and his tone is more serious than I've ever heard it. "Probably zero," he says. "But unfortunately, we don’t have a choice. And if it’s between that and letting this bastard take another victim... then I say: welcome to the family."

Sasha lets out a brief laugh, nearly silent. "A most unusual family indeed," he says. "But how could I refuse such an invitation?" Cooper extends his hand, as if sealing a deal with the devil himself. "Perfect. We start tomorrow." Sasha shakes his hand, and his smile widens ever so slightly. "Tomorrow, then. I can’t wait to see... what we can create together." Rivera leans his head against the back of the couch and sighs. "God... we’re in a bad movie."

"Leave the file with me," Sasha says calmly, rising from his chair. "I’d like to study it more before we meet again tomorrow." Cooper hesitates for a moment, but finally hands over the file. "Alright," he says. "But we expect to see you soon... Mr. Kovalenko." Sasha gives a slight nod, and the silence settles in again, heavier than before.

Just as I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, soft footsteps echo from the stairs, and the entire room is suddenly filled with an unexpected presence. A petite woman, no taller than 5'4”, descends the staircase. She’s barefoot and wearing a simple blue dress that falls just above her knees. Her long hair tumbles loosely over her shoulders, and her eyes are sleepy and pouty. She stops halfway down the stairs and looks at us with lazy curiosity. Cooper and Rivera immediately turn their eyes to Sasha, stunned—and I... I’m captivated.

Sasha looks at her with an expression completely different from earlier. None of the cold calculation. Not even a shadow of the devil who had smiled so threateningly. His eyes are filled with love. “Muza,” he says softly, almost in a whisper. The small woman continues down the stairs with slow, lazy steps and stops beside him, frowning slightly. “Sasha... there’s no bottled water. You forgot to get me bottled water,” she says in a tone that might sound spoiled to anyone else—but to him, it’s clearly adorable.

Rivera stays perfectly still, blinking slowly as if his brain is struggling to process what it’s seeing. “God... the devil’s in love,” he whispers—so low only I can hear it. But I’m no longer paying attention to Rivera. My eyes are fixed on Sasha’s hand. On the fingers bearing those tattooed letters. M-U-Z-A. Letters that carry the name of the woman standing before us. Muza crosses her arms and taps her foot like a child who's been denied her favorite toy. “You said you’d get me bottled water!” she repeats. Sasha leans slightly toward her, and his expression is so gentle, I feel like I’m witnessing a collective hallucination. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’ll get it right away. Please, don’t be upset.” Muza lets out a loud sigh and gives him a brief glare, then without another word, she heads toward the kitchen in slow, sulky steps.

The three of us remain frozen, unable to say a word. A gentle devil. A former Bratva boss brought to his knees by a childish tantrum. Sasha turns back to us, and his cold demeanor returns instantly. “As you can see, I’m very busy. If we’re done, I’d appreciate the rest of the evening for... personal matters,” he says, offering a subtle smile. Rivera raises his hands in surrender. “Of course! We’re leaving. Quietly. Quickly. Not even breathing too loud,” he says, already heading toward the door. I stand more slowly, unable to tear my eyes away from Sasha. Muza. She is Muza. The woman who managed to humanize the devil. Fascinating. And extremely dangerous. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” Cooper says, trying to maintain his composure. “Looking forward to it,” Sasha replies with that enigmatic smile.

We head for the exit, and just before the door closes behind us, I hear Muza’s pouty voice again: “Sasha! I want those blue macarons too!” The door shuts. Rivera lets out a deep sigh. “Well… we just watched the devil melt over a demand for bottled water and macarons. Who the hell would’ve thought?” I simply smile, glancing back at the massive door. The game has only just begun. We had barely left the estate’s grounds, and a heavy silence settles inside the car. No one says a word. None of us quite know how to process what we’ve just witnessed. Rivera sits behind the wheel, completely still, staring straight ahead. He takes a deep breath and then… crosses himself for the third time that evening. “Thank you, Lord, for letting me walk out of the devil’s house alive,” he says, in an overly dramatic tone.

He places a hand over his chest and turns to us, flashing a wide smile. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m quitting this job. I’m going to a monastery in Tibet. I’ll become a monk. No phones, no mobster psychologists… just peace and green tea.” I bury my face in my hands, laughing quietly, but Cooper remains as composed as ever. “You’re not off the hook yet, Rivera. I expect you at the office at eight sharp,” he says dryly. Rivera looks up at the sky. “Oh God, why do you punish me like this? Wasn’t thanking you for my survival enough?” He leans closer to the steering wheel and whispers conspiratorially, as if talking to the car itself: “Listen, baby… just get me home safe. If we make it, I swear I’ll wash you tomorrow and fill your tank with premium gas.” I can’t help it—I burst out laughing.

But Cooper, completely unshaken, pulls us right back to reality. “Don’t mention anything about Muza at the office,” Cooper says in a low but firm voice. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Seriously?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Very seriously,” Cooper affirms, throwing me a sharp look. “Maybe Sasha doesn’t want anyone knowing about her. We’re not risking stepping on his toes.” Rivera scoffs. “Yeah, the last thing I want is to piss off Mr.‘I-tattooed-my-girlfriend’s-name-on-my-fingers-and-walk-through-life-like-a-dark-god.’” He crosses himself again and sighs deeply. “God, I knew everything about Sasha Kovalenko. How many lieutenants he had, what shady businesses he ran, I even knew how much sugar he puts in his coffee. But Muza? Nothing! Zero! Not even a photo.” He turns toward us, eyes wide with mock conspiracy. “What the hell is she? A national secret? A ghost? Or…” He pauses dramatically, raising a finger. “…maybe she’s the devil’s guardian angel. Somebody’s got to take care of him, right?”

I shake my head, amused. “Seriously, Rivera? Are you making up your own urban legend now?” “Absolutely,” he says with a wide grin. “I’m calling it The Legend of Sasha and the Muza. It’ll be a bestseller.” Cooper shoots him a stern look. “Tell your colleagues about your bestseller, and you’ll have plenty of time to write it… in the traffic division.” Rivera instantly puts on a serious face and salutes sharply. “Understood, boss. Not a word about Muza. I swear. But if someone asks what we saw…” He looks at me and shrugs. “…I’ll say we had a quiet evening of reading with Mr. Kovalenko. No further details. ”Cooper shakes his head but says nothing more. On the way back to headquarters, in the silence that follows, I can’t help but think about one thing. Muza. That tiny woman who managed to melt the ice around a man like Sasha Kovalenko. If she can do that… then she is, without a doubt, the greatest mystery I’ve ever encountered.