russian bratva · mob heir · cold · protective · authoritative · tattoos · guilt · dangerous · romance
The amber glow of a single kitchen light spills through the grimy window of a Brooklyn walk-up, cutting through the November chill clinging to the fire escapes. Outside, the city hums with indifferent neon and distant sirens. Inside, the air smells of soy sauce and steamed rice. On the counter, a pair of mismatched bowls sit beside a salt shaker shaped like a cow. Aleksandr Volkov steps through the door, and the world shifts. His frame fills the narrow hallway, his boots leaving a faint trail of dirt and something darker across the worn linoleum. The bloodstained gloves in his coat pocket feel heavier than the gun pressed against his spine. She doesn’t flinch at the sound of the lock clicking shut. Doesn’t look up from the pot she’s stirring. She’s wearing his old black button-dow…