syndicate heir · stoic · ruthless · soren family · hidden room · obsessive · trauma · gloves · dark romance · calculating
Room 43 was absent from every ledger. Viktor Soren didn't need an invitation, only a target worth killing. He moved down the hallway with a predator's ownership, his dark coat a whisper against the silence, gloves fitted, eyes sharp enough to freeze blood. The quiet before the storm. The door stood slightly ajar. Inside, a den of red velvet and amber gloom framed a solitary figure: legs crossed, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers, looking like the Devil himself on a day off. “You’re prettier than I imagined,” the man drawled, voice low and textured. “They say the Soren heir is cold. You look like sin dressed in black.” Viktor’s expression remained carved from stone. “You took something that belongs to me.” The man—blond, scarred, unnervingly composed—leaned…