Chapter 3 - The Wolves’ DenThe Blackwood Club was hidden behind an unmarked, iron-reinforced steel door in the heart of the Meatpacking District. There were no neon signs, no velvet ropes, and no paparazzi—only two armed guards in tailored suits who inspected Roman’s credentials with the detached boredom of executioners.
When the heavy oak doors of the private dining room opened, the air pressure in the room seemed to drop.
Konstantin Sokolov sat at the head of a massive mahogany table carved from a single slab of ancient timber. He was a man built like a brick fortress, with silver-streaked hair, eyes the color of frozen vodka, and a reputation for skinning business partners who missed a decimal point. Surrounding him were four silent associates whose hands rested casually inside their jackets, right where the shoulder holsters lived.
Sokolov looked up, his lips parting in a slow, yellow-toothed smile as Roman stepped into the light. But the smile vanished the second his eyes shifted to the woman walking beside him.
“Roman,” Sokolov boomed, his voice like grinding stones. “They told me you were traveling alone tonight. They whispered that the great, untouchable Vale had finally decided to anchor himself. And who do we have here? A rare flower in a very dangerous garden.”
Clara didn't flinch. True to her training with fifty exhausted, screaming actors, she took a half-step forward, sliding her hand smoothly into the crook of Roman’s arm. Her fingers gripped his forearm with a casual, proprietorial familiarity that made Roman look down at her with a flicker of genuine surprise.
“Konstantin,” Roman said smoothly, his posture relaxing into a calculated display of supreme confidence. “Allow me to introduce my wife. Clara Vale.”
Sokolov’s eyes narrowed. He stood up slowly, walking around the table until he was standing directly in front of them. The scent of heavy Cuban tobacco and expensive scotch rolled off him in waves. He leaned in, his gaze darting from Clara’s high-piled curls down to the emerald silk of her dress, taking in every detail with the clinical eye of a diamond appraiser.
“A wife?” Sokolov purred, his heavy Russian accent rolling over the syllables like thunder. “In all the years I have known you, Roman, you have never trusted a woman enough to give her your last name. Tell me, Mrs. Vale... what kind of man keeps a dragon in a cage and calls her a pet?”
Clara felt Roman’s muscles tense beside her. This was the trap—the exact moment where candidates cracked, where nervous glances betrayed a fabricated past.
Instead of shrinking, Clara tilted her head back, offering Sokolov a cool, dismissive smile that mirrored Roman’s own expression with terrifying accuracy.
“He doesn't keep me in a cage, Mr. Sokolov,” Clara said, her voice steady, clear, and dripping with aristocratic boredom. “He simply realized that if he didn't put a ring on my finger, I was going to liquidate his shipping empire just to pay for my divorce lawyers. Men like Roman only respect women who are smart enough to hold a knife to their throats.”
Silence crashed over the room.
For three agonizing seconds, no one breathed. Then, a booming, guttural laugh erupted from Sokolov’s chest. He threw his head back, slamming a heavy hand against Roman’s shoulder.
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“Magnificent!” Sokolov roared, wiping a tear from his eye. “A lioness! Roman, you old bastard, you finally found someone who matches your madness. Sit! Eat! Let us celebrate the taming of the beast!”
Roman pulled out Clara’s chair, his hand brushing the small of her back. As he took his seat opposite her, his eyes met hers across the flickering candlelight. Neither of them said a word, but the message was loud and clear: Round one to us.
