The Beginning of Us

CHAPTER 1 The Slap

Milena

By ten at night, my feet were already killing me. It was the kind of pain I had learned not to notice anymore, the dull ache that settled into my bones after running all day from one job to another.

Morning at the bakery.

Afternoon cleaning offices in a building downtown.

Night at Obsidian.

Then home, sleeping, if my mind allowed it and in the morning everything again. A routine..a very hard and exhausting routine.

People liked to say youth made things easier. That being twenty-two meant I had energy to waste, time to recover, a body that forgave exhaustion.

Those people had never paid rent.They had never stood in front of an almost empty fridge, calculating whether eggs or bread would survive the week better.

They had never looked at a twelve-year-old boy pretending he wasn’t hungry because he knew his sister was counting coins.

Lev never asked for much and that made it worse somehow. If he had demanded things, if he had acted like a child should, maybe I would have felt less guilty.

But Lev was too observant. Too quiet. Too aware.

He knew when I skipped dinner and lied that I had already eaten. He knew when I smiled too quickly after checking bills. He knew and because he knew, I worked.

I worked until my body forgot what rest felt like.That was how I ended up standing under the gold-and-black lights of Obsidian, balancing a tray of whiskey glasses on one hand while my lower back threatened open rebellion.

Obsidian....Even the name sounded expensive.

The club stood in the center of the city like something untouchable. Black glass outside, dark and reflective like it was watching people instead of the other way around. Gold lights framed the entrance, soft enough to feel elegant, sharp enough to remind you that people like me didn’t belong there unless we were working.

Inside, it was worse or better, depending on how much money you had. Low lighting. Expensive perfume. Crystal glasses. Women in silk dresses. Men with watches worth more than my apartment. Music pulsed through the floor, not loud enough to interrupt conversations, just enough to remind you that the entire place was built around control.

Nothing happened accidentally there. Every table had its place. Every bottle had its shelf. Every person knew exactly where they stood. Especially the staff.

Obsidian belonged to Maksim Belov and everyone knew that. Even if they pretended not to. People said his name quietly, like saying it too loudly might make him appear behind you.

Mafia capo. Businessman. Dangerous man. Depends who you asked.

I had never met him. Only heard stories. Mostly from whispers between staff when they thought no one important was listening.

Cold. Serious. Ruthless.

A man who built empires and buried problems.

A man people respected because fear and respect often looked the same.

I didn’t care. As long as the checks cleared and no one bothered me, Maksim Belov could be the devil himself.

I tied my apron tighter and stepped back behind the bar.

“Table seven,” the bartender muttered, sliding drinks toward me.

I nodded. No wasted words.

That was how I survived places like this.

Smile politely. Speak little. Leave no reason for people to remember you.

Invisible paid better.

Tonight, though, invisibility was failing me.

The VIP section was full. A private table near the back, where the lighting was softer and the prices doubled for no reason except ego.

Four men sat there, already too drunk for the hour. Expensive suits with loud personalities. Gold watches flashing every time they lifted a glass.

The kind of men who thought money made them interesting. One of them had been watching me for the last hour. I noticed the first time because women always notice.

The second time because he smiled.

The third time because he snapped his fingers. I hated finger-snapping. Like calling a dog.

I walked over anyway, tray balanced against my hip. Professional. Polite.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

He leaned back in his chair like he was posing for his own funeral portrait. Mid-thirties maybe. Too much cologne. Too much confidence. A wedding ring he clearly considered decorative.

“Another whiskey,” he said, eyes dragging slowly over me.

“And maybe your name.”

“Whiskey,” I said.

His friends laughed. I turned before he could say more.That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t and for the next hour, he found reasons. Another drink. Extra ice. Wrong glass. Napkins.

Each time I returned, his hand got closer. A touch at my wrist. Fingers brushing my hip as I passed. A smile that made my skin crawl.

I kept my face neutral. People think strength looks loud. Sometimes it looks like swallowing disgust and finishing your shift.

By midnight, I was tired enough to be angry.

That was dangerous.

I approached the table again with a fresh bottle. He reached for my wrist but this time, he held it.

Not playful. Possessive.

I looked down at his hand and then at him.

“Sir,” I said, my voice calm enough to surprise even me, “please keep your hands to yourself.”

His friends went quiet. That was the real problem. Not the touch. The embarrassment.

Men like him could tolerate rejection in private. Never in front of witnesses. He smiled, but it had teeth now.

“You think you’re too good for me?”

I gently pulled my wrist free.

“I think I’m working.”

Another laugh from someone at the table, but this one was nervous. His pride cracked.

He stood slowly. Too close. The smell of alcohol hit me first and then his voice.

“Do you know who I am?”

Yes. A man who needed strangers to answer that question but I wasn’t stupid enough to say it. I stepped back instead.

“Please sit down, sir.”

Security was nearby. I could feel them watching now, but club protocol was always the same. Escalation first. Intervention second. 

He grabbed my arm again harder. Pain shot up to my shoulder.

I pulled away, stronger this time and that was the moment he decided humiliation needed punishment.

The slap came fast. Sharp. Clean.

The kind of sound that slices through music and for a second, I didn’t feel it. Just the force turning my head. The silence after. The sudden stillness of the room.

Then pain arrived. Hot. Immediate.

My lip split against my teeth and I tasted blood instantly. Copper. Warm. Humiliating.

Nobody moved for exactly one second and in that second, I remember thinking: Don’t cry. Not here. Not for him.

I straightened slowly. My cheek burned. My mouth stung.

I lifted my hand and touched my lip, pulling back red on my fingertips. Blood. Wonderful.

The man looked satisfied for half a heartbeat.

Then security moved. Fast. Two guards appeared like they had been summoned from the walls themselves. One shoved him back into his chair. Another stepped between us.

The music lowered. Not stopped. Just lowered.

Because Obsidian never made scenes. It erased them.

Phones disappeared from tables around us as staff moved discreetly through the room. Guests were redirected. Conversations shifted. Damage control.

The man started shouting.“She was disrespectful!”

One of the guards looked at him with the emotional warmth of a locked door.

“Sit down.”

He did, funny how brave men became smaller when consequences arrived. Someone touched my elbow gently.

“Milena.” Ana from the bar. “You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed.”

She almost smiled...Almost.

I let her lead me toward the back while my hands stayed strangely steady. Shock, maybe. Or pride.

In the mirror of the staff bathroom, the damage looked worse. Split lip. Red cheek. Eyes too bright.

I leaned against the sink and stared at myself. I looked tired. Not broken. Good. Because broken people didn’t make rent.

Ana handed me ice wrapped in a towel.“Do you want to go home?”

Did I? Yes. Could I? No.

“I finish my shift in two hours.”

She gave me the kind of look women reserve for each other when we both know the truth and hate it.

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

I pressed the ice to my face and hissed.

Outside, the club was already returning to normal. Like nothing happened. But things like that never really disappeared in places like Obsidian.

They traveled.

Upward.

Someone would report it. Someone important would hear it.

And by morning, a man I had never met would know my name.

Maksim Belov.

I looked at my reflection again. Blood cleaned. Lip swollen. Eyes still hard.

Perfect.

Exactly what I needed.

Another problem. And somehow, I had the feeling this one was about to change everything.

🖤

CHAPTER 2 The Report to the Capo

Maksim

My headquarters does not look like the home of a criminal empire.

That is intentional.

From the outside, it is nothing more than another corporate building in the center of the city. Glass. Steel. Precision.

Security checkpoints polite enough to feel professional, cold enough to remind people they are being watched.

No gold lions at the entrance. No unnecessary displays of wealth.

Power does not need theater. It only needs results.

Inside, everything is exactly as it should be.

Quiet corridors. Soundproof offices. Security cameras placed where most people never notice them.

Employees who understand that silence is often more valuable than conversation.

The top floor belongs to me. No one comes there without reason.

My office reflects the same rule.

Large. Minimal. Functional.

A dark walnut desk sits near the center of the room, heavy enough to look permanent. F