When Dreykov's name was mentioned, a cold glint flashed in Natasha's eyes. This man had been the source of her greatest suffering, forcing her into hiding for years because of his power. But now, she no longer feared him.
"I won't get involved directly," Leon said. "You all can handle it. Have Wanda control Dreykov to transfer the assets useful to us, and sell off the ones we don't need. Avoid touching anything too obvious—it'll draw attention."
"Got it. I'll make a plan," Natasha replied without hesitation.
With Natasha and Wanda on board, Leon felt a sense of relief. He trusted them completely. As for himself, he knew he needed time to regroup and recover after the recent events.
The sun shone brightly over Brazil, its rays illuminating everything in their path. In front of a luxurious hotel, a sleek Rolls-Royce pulled up.
As the doorman respectfully opened the door, a Russian man in a sharp suit stepped out, flanked by several muscular bodyguards. The group made their way into the grand hotel, taking the elevator directly to the restaurant.
At a table near the floor-to-ceiling window, someone was already waiting— a man wearing glasses, with three bodyguards standing behind him. Seeing the Russian approach, the man with glasses stood up and extended his hand.
"Mr. Dreykov, a pleasure to meet you," he said.
"Likewise, Mr. Walker. I believe we'll find our partnership beneficial," Dreykov replied.
The bodyguards on both sides kept a discreet distance, far enough to give privacy, but close enough to act if needed.
Dreykov and Walker sat at the table, sipping wine and enjoying the chef's gourmet dishes while they discussed their business. Hours passed, and by the end of their meal, both men stood and shook hands, sealing the deal. Dreykov left with a satisfied smile.
It had been a successful negotiation, and Dreykov was in a good mood. He decided to extend his stay in Brazil, booking a presidential suite in the luxurious hotel. After washing up, he donned a white bathrobe, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out over the city and the distant coastline.
The view was breathtaking. Everything seemed perfect.
But as he admired the beauty of the city, a dark thought crossed his mind, clouding his mood. A face appeared in his memory—the ace spy he had personally trained, the one who had betrayed him.
"Natasha..." he muttered under his breath, his expression turning grim.
Her defection had taught him a bitter lesson: when a tool becomes self-aware, it can no longer be controlled.
"If there's one, a second will inevitably follow."
This was something Dreykov could not tolerate. To him, those spies were his property—assets that had no right to develop self-awareness.
But he had found a solution: pheromones. A compound designed to control his spies, ensuring they would submit completely to his will.
Still, Natasha's mysterious disappearance left a sour taste in his mouth. As the head of the Red Room, he knew just how deadly the spies he trained could be. If she ever sought revenge, it would mean living in constant fear.
"I'll find you, Natasha," he growled, downing his whiskey in one gulp. His tone was venomous.
But before he could relish his anger, a familiar voice, rough and cold, cut through the air.
"I don't think you need to find me, Dreykov. I'm right here."
It was like being struck by lightning. Dreykov's entire body froze, a surge of terror swelling inside him. He couldn't believe it. Though he hadn't yet turned around, he could feel the presence behind him—something dangerous, a predator lurking just out of sight.
With stiff movements, Dreykov slowly turned and saw two women standing behind him.
One of the women was Natasha, dressed in a striking red leather jacket. The other was a young woman in a gray sweater, unfamiliar to Dreykov.
A year had passed since he'd last seen Natasha, and to his surprise, she seemed different. The strongest spy he had ever commanded appeared to be thriving, and her demeanor had shifted. She used to be cold, a tool devoid of emotion. Now, there was something else—something more human about her.
Natasha smirked, a glint of danger in her striking green eyes. "Miss me, boss?"
Dreykov, ever the cunning old fox, discreetly glanced at the closed door behind them. His hand, hidden in his pocket, kept pressing the alarm, but no one came. This told him everything. The bodyguards outside, and even the secret sentries he had placed, had been dealt with.
His heart sank. Taking a steady breath, he feigned calm and said in a deep voice, "Natasha, it's been a while. Your defection... made me sad for quite some time."
"Sad?" Natasha tilted her head, tearing through Dreykov's mask of hypocrisy. "I think you were more angry—angry enough to want to tear me to pieces."
"How could I be?" Dreykov's expression didn't falter. "You were the best spy I ever trained."
Natasha's eyes narrowed, her voice icy and unrelenting. "The veil hides your ugliness, Dreykov, and it makes me sick. You've caused countless tragedies, destroyed so many families."
Her words cut deeper as her tone grew colder. "You should pay the price for that."
"You know, Natasha, even if you kill me, nothing will change. You'll face even more relentless revenge and pursuit," Dreykov said, his voice trembling as the reality of his impending death sank in. His back was drenched in sweat. He couldn't fathom how much Natasha had changed in the year she'd been gone.
Natasha sneered. "Your wealth, your empire—it will all be ruined. And I'll make sure you die after seeing it crumble." Her eyes glinted with cold amusement. "And if you're still counting on your bodyguards..."
Bang!
The door behind Dreykov flew open, revealing Sergei, towering and formidable. In one hand, he held two unconscious women in tight combat suits, and in the other, he effortlessly carried another. With a casual motion, he threw them to the ground.
Dreykov's hope drained as he looked at the unconscious Black Widows at his feet. His desperation deepened.
At a subtle signal from Natasha, Wanda's eyes glowed red. The swirling red energy of her chaos magic enveloped Dreykov. His eyes turned crimson, and the fear and despair in his expression were quickly replaced with a vacant, dull stare.