BOUND TO TWO DONS

At twenty-two, most people my age possessed the simple luxury of worrying about mundane things: enduring exhausting university exams, searching for a respectable desk job that offered stability, or planning a wild weekend night out to break the monotony of the week. For me, however, my sole and ultimate luxury was waking up each morning with a composed face, facing the world, and paying the rent for the cramped, decaying apartment I inhabited on the forgotten edge of this sprawling city.

My name is Elena Vane. My life was nothing more than a straight line of artificial calm and a continuous escape from memories. I worked as a receptionist and gallery assistant at the Aurora Classic Art Gallery—a dark, high-end art gallery sitting right on the dividing line that split the city into two hostile halves. I intentionally preferred the night shifts; the night inside the art gallery granted me a solemn silence, a silence that wrapped around the centuries-old oil paintings and created a protective wall between me and the hidden chaos lurking behind the colored city lights.

Yet the city, behind those transparent glass facades of the dim art rooms, was not truly run by the police officers or the mayors who appeared on news channels. The city was a slice of hell, split equally and brutally between two terrifying shadows that knew no mercy.

In the far North reigned Alexander Ivanov.

He was a man no one had ever seen smile, as if his features were carved from hard, black marble. He was the undisputed leader of the North Syndicate. Alexander was twenty-eight years old, always impeccably dressed in tailor-made Italian suits, possessing a cold, chess-like mind that never made a wrong move. To the city’s wealthy elite and businessmen, he was a prominent investor owning shipping and real estate companies. To the underworld, however, he was the cold Reaper who executed whole bloodlines with a single glance, without ever raising his voice or lifting a finger. He viewed women as a fatal point of weakness with no place in his agenda of blood and shady deals... until that fateful night he walked into the gallery.

In the extreme South ruled Damian Vance.

If Alexander represented the lethal ice that froze blood in veins and quietly dismantled enemies, Damian—at twenty-six, the leader of the South Syndicate—was the burning fire that consumed everything in its path. Damian was a man living on the edge; broad-shouldered, with sharp, harsh features marked by a deep scar at the end of his left eyebrow, his hazel eyes burning with an unquenchable volcanic rage. He recognized no laws, asked permission from no one, and took whatever he wanted by sheer force. Yet behind that alarming aggression, he hid a deep, dark spiritual void that nothing had managed to fill... until our paths crossed against my will.

Two terrifying men... two empires separated by an ocean of hatred, ancient vendettas, and spilled blood.

And neither of them had the slightest clue about the dark, buried secret that time had hidden beneath the ruins of a blood-stained past: Alexander and Damian were legitimate blood brothers, separated by only two years! Their original family had been destroyed, their lineage erased, and they were torn apart as young children following the assassination of their mob boss father. Two rival warlords took the boys, raising them in opposing camps without ever revealing their true identity.

Alexander did not know he had a living brother, and Damian had no idea that his greatest enemy—the man he swore to plunge a blade into—carried the exact same DNA and the exact same blood flowing through his veins. Now, dark fate seemed to have decided to play its grandest, most destructive game, bringing these two brothers together not just on a blood-soaked battlefield... but at the altar of one woman.

It was half-past eleven at night. The gentle November rain tapped rhythmically against the high glass windows of the gallery, and the silence inside offered both peace and dread, saved only by the soft sound of my footsteps as I reviewed the list of classical antiques set for the upcoming auction.

I adjusted the collar of my dark wool coat to shield myself from the chill. Before I could reach out to switch off the main hall lights, I heard the heavy front door chime ring, announcing the arrival of a visitor at this very late hour.

I raised my head in surprise, my eyes immediately locking with a man standing at the threshold.

It was Alexander Ivanov.

He entered holding a black umbrella dripping with water, wearing a heavy overcoat over his navy suit. His aura was so imposing and dominant that the air in the room suddenly felt heavy and thin. He said nothing; instead, he walked with measured, silent strides toward a large oil painting depicting a tragic, ancient historical battle.

"We are about to close, sir..." I said, trying to keep my voice steady and professional, even though my heart gave a sudden, violent leap I couldn't quite comprehend.

He turned toward me very slowly. His grey eyes resembled the overcast sky right before a destructive blizzard. He stared at me for long seconds—a sharp, deep, probing gaze that made me feel as if he were copying my features and reading all my hidden secrets at once.

"Beauty does not bow to closing hours, Miss..." he said in a calm, deep, commanding voice that left no room for argument. Then he added, inspecting my face intently instead of the painting: "This painting... depicts two brothers fighting savagely over a broken throne. Don't you find the contradiction strangely tragic?"

I swallowed hard, struggling to maintain my composure. "Sometimes broken thrones are all people have left, sir."

A cold, faint ghost of a smile appeared on his lips—completely devoid of warmth—but his eyes flared with a strange spark... the hungry spark of a predator that had stumbled upon something he wasn't looking for, but would certainly never allow anyone on earth to take from him.

Before I could process the moment, he pulled out a black business card made of heavy metal and placed it on the marble counter in front of me without taking his eyes off mine.

"My name is Alexander. And I believe I will be visiting this gallery quite often in the coming days."

He departed with the same terrifying, majestic silence he had entered with, leaving me standing in the middle of the hall, my heart pounding like war drums.

I locked up the gallery, my hands trembling slightly as I clutched my keys inside my pocket. I stepped out into the pitch-black street, where the rain had intensified, leaving the avenue completely deserted.

I took a few hurried steps toward the bus stop, but the roar of a powerful, aggressive engine shattered the quiet night.

A black sports car with pitch-black tinted windows pulled up violently beside me, its tires screeching against the wet asphalt. The door threw open, and another man stepped out.

It was Damian Vance.

Unlike Alexander, he held no umbrella. Rain poured heavily over his messy black hair, making his black leather jacket glisten under the pale streetlights. He radiated pure energy and immediate danger, his hazel eyes burning with fierce defiance.

He stepped toward me with terrifying confidence, his massive frame blocking out the streetlight entirely.

"You're out late tonight, sweetheart," he said in a raspy, sarcastic tone, leaning a heavy hand against the brick wall directly behind me, trapping me completely within his overwhelming presence.

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" I gasped, stepping back until my spine hit the cold wall, my hand moving instinctively toward my phone.

Damian let out a low, husky laugh that filled the air with dread. "Me? I'm the guy who guards these streets while you sleep peacefully. The name's Damian. I've been watching this gallery for a week... not for the dead paintings, but for the little doe working inside."

He stepped closer, bringing with him the scent of expensive tobacco and rain laced with danger. I looked up at his handsome face, marked by sharp angles, and saw a volcano ready to erupt in his eyes.

"Stay away from me, or I'll call the police!" I warned, my voice raspy as I feigned courage.

A dangerous grin spread across his face, flashing his teeth. "The police? Sweetheart, the police in this part of town work for me and take their orders from me. No one is going to protect you from me... and no one in this city will protect you at all unless I decide to."

Then he reached out, and with a swift, fleeting touch, his warm fingers brushed a wet strand of hair away from my face. His touch was strangely gentle, contrasting wildly with his lethal appearance.

"Go home safely tonight, Elena..." he growled softly, pronouncing my name with terrifying ease. "But keep this in mind... you are under my protection now. Whether you like it or not."

He turned on his heel, got back into his car, and sped off with a roar, his red taillights fading into the darkness of the South.

I stood there in the middle of the rain-slicked street, breathing heavily, my body shivering under the cold downpour.

At the northern end of the avenue, a black limousine belonging to Alexander sat parked deep in the shadows, silently watching my steps from afar. At the southern end, the smoke from Damian's tires still hovered over the wet pavement.

I didn't know it then, but my quiet life had been completely shattered. I didn't know I had become the ultimate prize in a ruthless war between the King of Ice and the King of Fire... And most importantly, I didn't know that the blood about to spill in these streets over my heart was the blood of two brothers who had no idea they were fighting for the same throne... and the same girl.

Suddenly, as I hurried toward the narrow alley leading to my apartment, three heavy, shadowy figures dressed in tactical gear and face masks lunged from the darkness.

Before I could scream or run, one of them slammed a cloth soaked in a sharp, chemical-scented knockout agent over my mouth and nose.

My keys and bag clattered onto the wet pavement. As my vision faded into pitch black and my body went limp in their harsh grip, I heard one of the men whisper into a radio in a cold, venomous tone:

"Operation complete... We have secured the girl. Inform the bosses that the war has officially begun. Let's see which one of them reaches her first!"

I lost consciousness completely as sirens began wailing in the distance, announcing the arrival of total destruction.