The morning felt different. Not because the sun rose any brighter, but because I knew there was no going back. I still had nightmares from the night before. Sometimes, I still see his eyes when I blink, wide, wet, pleading. The way his hands shook as he begged for mercy. I tell myself it wasn’t my finger on the trigger, but it doesn’t matter. The guilt clings to me like smoke I can’t wash off.

I woke up before my alarm. The air was heavy, like it already knew the weight of the day. I showered quickly, pulled on black slacks and a white blouse. My father had said, “Look respectable.” Respectable. That word had been beaten into me since childhood. Respectable daughters don’t talk back. Respectable heirs don’t refuse orders. Respectable women… disappear into their father’s shadows. Respectable for whom? Bloodthirsty Men who ordered murders over breakfast? All in the name of power and control.

Downstairs, breakfast was already waiting. I barely touched it before my father appeared, crisp in a tailored suit, eyes sharp as ever. “Ready?” he asked. I didn’t answer. Readiness felt irrelevant. Even if I were to say no, I wasn't given any options. The ride to his office was silent, except for the low hum of the engine. When we arrived, the guards stepped aside without a word. The doors opened into a room thick with cigar smoke and power. My father placed a hand on my shoulder, guiding me in like I was an exhibit. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is my daughter, Elisa." She’s no longer a shadow in this business, she’s my right hand and my successor.” We shaked hands. My palms dampened against my blouse. I wanted to shrink into the marble floor, disappear before their eyes stripped me bare. But instead, I lifted my chin, pretending the tremor in my chest didn’t exist. I could feel their eyes sizing me up, measuring whether I belonged here. A low murmur rolled through the room like a wave, quiet at first, then sharper. I caught fragments ... too young… not ready… just a girl. My father’s jaw tightened. “Do any of you have something to say?” he asked, his voice calm in the way that meant danger. One of the older men, dressed in an expensive gray suit, leaned back in his chair. With respect, she’s not fit to be your successor. The streets will eat her alive. We need someone ruthless. Not… timid.” The room was still. My father rose slowly, the scrape of his chair on the floor louder than the murmurs had been. “Timid?” he repeated while his voice thundered in the room. Before his voice dropped lower. “The next person to insult my daughter will have his tongue cut out and mailed to his family." Do I make myself clear?

No one spoke. One man shifted in his seat, and the sound of his cufflink tapping against the glass table was deafening. No one dared to breathe too loud. That silence wasn’t respect, it was terror. And it swallowed me whole. Then he turned to me. His eyes locked on mine, steady and unyielding. This is why you need to learn, Elisa. This world won’t hand you respect. You’ll have to take it and keep it. The room was still tense from my father’s outburst. No one dared to speak. He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, his grip a mix of warning and promise. “From today,” he said to the room, “you will treat her as you treat me." Anyone who forgets that…” His eyes swept across the table like a blade. “…will regret it.” From the look of their eyes, I could tell my father didn't mutter empty threats. They all seemed terrified and that frightened me. He led me out without another word. I had alot of questions, but my lips were unyielding.

Our first stop was a private conference with two men in dark suits, faces hard as stone. They spread blueprints across the table ports, warehouses, shipping routes. My father explained which ones we controlled and which ones we planned to take. I was told to watch, listen, and remember. Next came the “negotiation room.” It wasn’t about contracts. It was about a man who’d delayed payment. He sat sweating in a chair while my father spoke softly, almost politely. The man handed over an envelope thick with cash before my father’s smile could fade. After that, he walked me through the back offices, not desks and computers, but rooms with guards counting stacks of dollars, checking ledgers, and exchanging coded messages.

Every so often, a name would come up, and my father would make a note. My stomach knotted. Somewhere in the city, someone’s life had just been reduced to ink on my father’s notepad. A single word scribbled in black would decide if they woke up tomorrow. I imagined the person behind that name: a wife waking at dawn, a child waiting at a door. My father’s ink turned human faces into wagers.

He didn’t explain, but I knew those notes meant action. We ended up in a secure warehouse. Crates were opened for inspection. Some with bottles of imported wine, others with rifles wrapped in oiled cloth. My father introduced me to the supplier, a man with scars on his hands and a voice like gravel. They shook hands, and I caught the subtle nod that sealed a silent agreement. By the time we returned to the main building, the sky was already dimming. My father stopped in the hallway, looked at me for a long moment, and said, “You’ll learn." Faster than they expected. But as I walked beside him, every step felt heavier.

At this point, my father was obsessed with the tale of me becoming his successor. This wasn’t just my father’s world anymore. It was forced to become mine. We proceeded to my father's quarters and he sat and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “You’ll continue your training,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “But now, you’ll train while learning our ways." No more walls. No more shadows. You’ll be in the room… with the wolves. I was about to respond when he slid a folder across the desk. “This,” he tapped it, “is Viktor Drovos, one of our top investors. He doesn’t trust words, only strength. You’ll get him to sign this contract. “What’s the catch?” I asked. He smirked. “He fights." Every deal he signs, he tests his partners first. Win, and he’ll sign. Lose, and he’ll tear that contract in half in front of you. I let out a heavy sigh while heading out to meet him.

Viktor Drovos didn’t look like the kind of man who broke bones for fun. When I walked into the lavish lounge, he was sprawled on a velvet armchair, swirling a glass of amber whiskey. Immaculate suit. Gold cufflinks. The kind of polished charm that belonged in boardrooms, not fight rings. “You’re the girl sent by Moretti?” he asked, his voice smooth but heavy with some hidden weight. “I’m here for your signature,” I replied, holding up the folder. He chuckled slowly, as if I’d told a joke. “And I suppose you’ve been told I… have certain hobbies?” I raised a brow. “They said you love fights.” He smiled, slow and deliberate, setting his glass down. “Love isn’t the word." "I live for them.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping low. “Do you know what I hear when a bone snaps? Not pain. Not weakness. Opportunity. That’s when men show their true selves. Before I could answer, he flicked his fingers and two massive guards stepped forward. “Take her to the gym." The gym wasn’t some grimy underground cage it was pristine, marble floors leading to a matted center ring under bright spotlights. Viktor stepped in a few minutes later, coat gone, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. His arms, lean but corded with muscles, told a different story from the man I’d met upstairs and definitely not what I expected. “Here are the rules,” he said, tightening the tape around his wrists. “You beat me, I sign. "You lose, I tear that contract and forget your name.” My throat tightened. This wasn’t some test on paper I could cram for. If I failed here, it wouldn’t just be a contract torn in half, it would be my father tearing me in half with his disappointment.

“That’s it?” I asked. “That’s it.” He gave a small, almost lazy nod and then, without warning, launched at me with a speed that didn’t match his calm demeanor. The first hit came close enough to graze my jaw, reminding me this wasn’t a game. I steadied my stance. “Fine,” I said, my voice steady. “Let’s make this quick.” The moment his fist flew, I knew Viktor wasn’t here to play. Every strike was fast, deliberately testing me, trying to break my guard. My arms burned from blocking, my ribs ached from the ones that slipped through. He fought like a man who had never lost. One punch slipped past my guard and sent me sprawling to the mat, breath knocked clean out of me. For a second, my knees buckled. The edges of my vision blurred. For a heartbeat, I wanted to just stay down, let it end. But then his words, "You’re not ready for this world" hit harder than his fists. And suddenly, surrender tasted worse than blood. Somewhere in the haze, my father’s words burned through: Fight because losing isn’t an option. I let him push me, bait him into thinking I was wearing myself down. Then, when he lunged for the finishing blow, I sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and drove my knee into his gut. His breath left him with a sharp grunt. Before he could recover, I swept his leg and pinned him. Silence. Just his ragged breathing and my pulse pounding in my ears. He looked up at me, a slow grin spreading across his face. “D*mn… you’ve got teeth.” “Sign the d*mn paper,” I growled, breathing ragged. “Not yet,” he said, charging again. This time, I met him halfway, using his momentum to throw him onto the mat. His laughter echoed through the room, deep and rough. He must definitely be a psychopath and I wasn't surprised.

He leaned close, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “But be careful, princess." In this world, the first person you beat is usually the first one who comes back for revenge.” He lay there, catching his breath, then pushed himself up. “You’ve got bite, little queen.” As he slid the pen across the page, he didn’t break eye contact. As he signed, I noticed a tiny emblem on the pen cap, the same I’d seen on his cufflink. The image stuck in my head: scar, pen, contract. Everything left a mark.

“Moretti has a wolf in his bloodline after all. But wolves eat their own, little queen. Don’t forget that he signed the contract with a flourish, tossing it back to me. “You’ll do just fine in this world.”

I walked out with the contract in hand, my father waiting at the door. He didn’t say “good job.” He didn’t have to. The slight curl of his mouth was enough. As I followed him out, contract clutched in my hand, a single thought gnawed at me: winning didn’t feel like triumph. It felt like shackles tightening, one fight at a time. Then he added, almost casually, “This was only a test, Elisa. Tomorrow… you’ll face someone who doesn’t play by rules and you should be ready.