The crystal flutes clinked, a brittle sound against the orchestral swells that filled the Grand Ballroom of the Volkov Palace. Zoran Belan, a pristine white napkin draped over his arm, navigated the laughing throngs, his gaze fixed on the polished marble floor. Each step was a practiced glide, his face a mask of polite indifference, but inside, a familiar ache tightened his chest.
He watched the bride, a shimmering silhouette in a gown of spun starlight, her laughter echoing like a song he once knew. Ivana Novak. His ex-fiancée. Her new husband, a boisterous man with an aggressively coiffed mane and a sneering mouth, held her hand possessively. The air around them seemed to thicken with their opulent joy, a suffocating blanket for Zoran.
He delivered a tray of sparkling amber liquid to a cluster of guffawing executives, their suits tailored to impossible precision. The scent of exotic perfumes and expensive cigars clung to the air, a stark contrast to the grease and industrial cleaner that usually defined his days.
“More champagne, quickly, boy!” A booming voice cut through the din. It belonged to Dusan Vaskov, the groom. He was heading for Zoran, Ivana trailing behind him, her smile a little too wide, her eyes studiously avoiding Zoran's.
Zoran bowed his head slightly. “Right away, sir.” He reached for a fresh bottle, his movements fluid, honed by years of waiting on people who saw him as little more than a piece of furniture.
Dusan stopped directly in front of him, a smirk playing on his lips. “Look what the cat dragged in. Zoran, isn’t it?” He didn't wait for a reply. “Still polishing silver, I see. Some things never change.”
Ivana’s gaze flickered to Zoran, a fleeting shadow of something unreadable in her eyes before she quickly averted them.
“My apologies, sir,” Zoran began, his voice barely a murmur above the music. “I’m afraid I don’t recall our previous acquaintance.” He lied, of course. He remembered every cutting word, every disdainful glance from Dusan during his brief, ill-fated engagement to Ivana.
Dusan let out a theatrical laugh, spraying a fine mist of wine onto Zoran’s pristine white shirt. “Oh, you wouldn’t, would you? You were always so… forgettable. Just like your family. Nobodies, aren’t they?” He took another long sip, then, with a deliberate flick of his wrist, tilted his glass. A slow, crimson stream cascaded down, staining the front of Zoran’s jacket, soaking the linen beneath.
The music seemed to falter, though Zoran knew it hadn’t. A few nearby conversations died out, replaced by a hushed quiet. The warmth of the wine spread across his chest, a burning shame that dwarfed the liquid’s temperature. His hands, gripping the tray, began to tremble imperceptibly. A strange heat pricked behind his eyes, a sensation he hadn’t felt since he was a child, a buzzing tremor just beneath his skin.
“Perhaps you should stick to serving water, boy,” Dusan sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. “You clearly can’t handle anything more… substantial.” He gestured to a burly guard standing nearby. “See that he cleans up. And stays out of sight. Don’t want him tarnishing my special night.”
The guard, a hulking brute with a shaved head and a neck like a tree trunk, stepped forward. “This way, waiter.”
Zoran swallowed, the humiliation a bitter taste. He nodded, unable to meet Ivana’s gaze, which he could feel boring into his back. He moved, like a puppet on strings, toward a service exit.
“Don’t make trouble,” the guard grunted, pushing him roughly through a discreet door leading to the service alley. The cool night air hit Zoran’s face, a blessed relief after the stifling grandeur within.
Two more men, similarly built, emerged from the shadows. They wore the same dark, tailored suits as Dusan’s security detail. Their faces were flat, devoid of emotion.
“You really messed up, kid,” one of them said, cracking his knuckles. “Mr. Vaskov doesn’t like to be embarrassed. Especially not by a street dog like you.”
Zoran backed away, his pulse throbbing raw in his throat. The alley was dark, smelling of refuse and damp concrete. There was no escape. The buzzing under his skin intensified, a frantic hum, a desperate instinct to push back against the impending violence.
“We’re gonna teach you a lesson,” the second man growled, stepping closer, his shadow falling over Zoran.
Just as the first fist began its arc, a screech of tires ripped through the night. A sleek, obsidian-black limousine swerved into the narrow alley, its powerful engine growling before it skidded to a halt, blocking the exit. The headlights, blindingly bright, pinned Zoran and his assailants in their harsh glare.
The driver’s side door swung open, and a woman emerged. She was tall, with a lean, athletic build, dressed in a impeccably tailored dark suit that seemed to melt into the shadows, save for the glint of a silver brooch on her lapel. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe, elegant knot, and her eyes, even in the harsh light, held an unsettling intensity. She moved with a predator’s grace, a suppressed sidearm appearing in her grip as if drawn from thin air.
“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice a low, melodic purr that somehow carried over the idling engine. “I believe you have something that belongs to my employer.” She flicked her wrist, leveling the muzzle squarely between the first thug’s brows.
The thugs froze, momentarily stunned by her sudden appearance. “Who the hell are you?” the lead brute demanded, recovering his swagger.
“Ksenija Volkov,” she replied, her gaze unwavering. She looked past them, directly at Zoran, and a curious, almost appreciative expression crossed her face. “And you are Zoran Belan.”
A freezing prickle raced across Zoran's skin, independent of the night air. His *true* name. Spoken by a stranger with a gun.
“Your grandmother, Daria Belan, has sent for you.” Her words were not a question, but a command. She shifted her aim with blinding speed, a precise double tap. The lead thug crumpled, a silent heap, a small hole appearing in his forehead. The second collapsed instantly, staring uncomprehendingly at the dark sky.
The third, the one closest to Zoran, lunged, a desperate, guttural cry escaping his lips. Ksenija moved like liquid shadow, sidestepping his clumsy charge, then brought the steel butt of her weapon down with sickening force against his temple. He dropped, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Silence descended, broken only by the hum of the limousine’s engine and the distant, muffled strains of the wedding music. Ksenija turned, weapon holstered, her expression flat as she regarded the three fallen men. Then, her piercing gaze settled on Zoran, who stood frozen, splattered with wine and grime, his mind reeling.
“Your real life starts now, Lord Belan.”