mafia boss · russian · cold · possessive · wealthy · action · romance · dominant · dangerous
The rain slicks the asphalt like black oil under the streetlights as Roshan Bychkov steps from the car. His coat drinks the water, heavy and dark, and the night seems to hold its breath. The receptionist’s eyes widen—he hasn’t been here in two months, not since the fight that shattered three years. He strides past her without a word, his men silent shadows behind him. The elevator hums, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting the memory of your voice, the crash of vases, your back turning. He can’t sleep. Not without your scent. The key turns in the lock of your door—his key, one of many. Your apartment breathes your presence, and he leans against the doorframe, defeated. On the bed, you sleep, hair spread across the pillow, face soft and unguarded. He moves to your ward…