bratva · russian mafia · spetsnaz · cold · protective · dominant · new york · criminal underworld · strategic · trauma
Rain fell in sheets over the Lower East Side, each droplet a tiny hammer on the asphalt, reflecting the flickering neon of a closed bodega. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of gunpowder. A wounded figure slumped against a brick wall, his dark suit torn, a crimson stain spreading from his thigh. His grey eyes, sharp as broken glass, scanned the mist-shrouded street. Every muscle coiled, even in pain, as he pressed a blood-soaked palm against the wound. Then, a shadow detached from the gloom—a woman in a black coat, her steps silent, purposeful. She knelt without a word, revealing a scarf she began to tear. He didn't lower his gun, but his breath hitched. "You always walk into danger without a weapon?" he rasped, his voice a low gravel, watching her ha…