Crimson 4

The mansion was silent, the kind of silence that felt heavy and alive. Damian Volkov stood alone in his study, staring out at the snow-covered grounds of his estate. The night was calm, but his mind was anything but. No matter how many years had passed, the memories always returned when the quiet stretched too long.

On his desk sat a small locket, simple and worn. Damian’s fingers brushed over the cold metal as he picked it up. Slowly, he opened it to reveal a faded photograph of his parents—his mother’s warm smile and his father’s proud, steady gaze. For a moment, the mask of control Damian wore so well cracked. The memories he worked so hard to bury surged forward, dragging him back to the night that had changed everything.

---

It had been a warm summer evening, though the heat felt stifling in the backseat of the sleek black car. Damian was fifteen, sitting beside his mother as the vehicle cruised down a quiet road on the outskirts of Moscow. His father, Chael Volkov, sat in the front passenger seat, his sharp eyes scanning the road ahead. Even then, Damian had admired his father’s strength and presence. Chael wasn’t just a leader of the Bratva—he was its backbone, a man respected and feared by all.

“Damian, stop fidgeting,” his mother, Elena, said gently, her lips curving into a small smile. She placed a hand on his knee to still his restless movements.

“I’m not fidgeting,” Damian muttered, though he shifted in his seat again.

Elena laughed softly, her warm brown eyes meeting his. She always had a way of calming him, of making him feel like the world outside didn’t matter. But that night, even her comforting presence couldn’t shake the unease settling in Damian’s chest.

“Everything will be fine,” she said, as if sensing his worry.

Damian wanted to believe her, but something about the way his father was sitting so stiffly, his hand hovering too close to the gun at his side, told him otherwise. Chael hadn’t said much during the ride, but the tension radiating from him was enough to put Damian on edge.

The car slowed as they approached a turn. That was when it happened.

The first gunshot shattered the stillness of the night.

The windshield cracked as a bullet tore through it, hitting the driver. The car swerved violently, and Damian’s mother grabbed him, pulling him close as the vehicle came to a screeching halt.

“Stay down!” Chael barked, already reaching for his weapon.

Damian’s heart pounded in his chest as he crouched in the backseat, his mother’s arms wrapped tightly around him. The air was filled with the deafening sound of gunfire, bullets striking the car and the ground around them.

Chael threw open the passenger door, shouting for Elena to stay inside. “Don’t move!” he ordered, his voice steady even as chaos erupted around them.

But Elena didn’t listen. She pushed Damian further down into the footwell, her hands trembling as she whispered, “Don’t move, Damian. Don’t make a sound.”

“Mom—”

“Promise me,” she said, her voice firm despite the fear in her eyes.

“I promise,” Damian choked out.

Elena pressed a kiss to his forehead before slipping out of the car. Damian reached for her, but she was already gone.

He couldn’t see much from his position, but he heard everything. The shouting, the gunfire, the sound of bodies hitting the ground. He peeked over the edge of the seat just in time to see his father firing at their attackers, his movements precise and lethal. Chael was a force to be reckoned with, but even he couldn’t hold off the ambush alone.

Then Damian saw her—his mother, standing near the car, shielding him with her own body as she tried to make her way to Chael.

“Elena, get back!” Chael shouted, but it was too late.

A shot rang out, and she fell.

“NO!” Damian screamed, throwing open the car door despite his promise to stay put.

The world blurred around him as he ran to her, his legs feeling like lead. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he tried to stop the blood spilling from her chest.

“Damian,” she whispered, her voice weak. Her hand reached up to touch his face, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “I love you. Remember that.”

Her hand fell limp, and Damian’s world shattered.

Before he could fully process what had happened, strong arms grabbed him from behind. He was dragged away, kicking and screaming, as more gunshots rang out. Through his tears, he saw his father fighting until the very end, refusing to back down even as the odds stacked against him.

The last thing Damian remembered was the face of the man who had orchestrated it all—a man his father had trusted. One of their own.

---

Damian’s mind snapped back to the present as he stood in his study, the memory fading but the pain lingering. He clenched the locket tightly in his hand, the edges digging into his palm. That night had been the turning point of his life.

He had learned the hard way that trust was a weapon, one that could be used against you when you least expected it. His father’s closest ally had betrayed them, selling them out to a rival faction in exchange for power. It was a lesson Damian would never forget.

From that day on, he had vowed to never let his emotions control him again. Attachments, trust, love—they were weaknesses he couldn’t afford. He had hardened himself, building walls around his heart and becoming the man the Bratva needed: cold, ruthless, and unyielding.

But standing there now, alone in his vast, empty estate, the weight of it all pressed down on him. The power, the control, the respect—it came at a price. And sometimes, in the quiet moments, he wondered if the price had been too high.

Damian took a deep breath, forcing the memories back into the dark corners of his mind where they belonged. He placed the locket back in its drawer and locked it away, just as he had locked away his emotions for so many years.

There was no room for weakness in his world. No room for sentimentality. The Bratva demanded strength, and Damian would give it, no matter the cost.

He turned away from the desk and walked toward the window, his gaze fixed on the snowy expanse outside. The past might haunt him, but it would never control him. He had made sure of that.

Because in his world, survival wasn’t about being the strongest or the smartest. It was about being the coldest. And Damian Volkov had mastered the art of ice long ago.