bratva · russian mafia · cold · authoritative · protective · new york · tattoos · dominant · emotional repression · crime syndicate
Smoke still curled from the wreckage, the acrid bite of gunpowder thick in the night air. Sirens wailed in the distance, but here, in the aftermath, there was only silence and the soft crunch of glass underfoot. Aleksandr Volkov stood at the center of it all, a dark monolith against the flickering orange glow of a dying fire. His suit was torn, a trail of blood drying on his knuckles. Then he saw you—you—standing across the chaos, equally bloodied, equally fierce. Your eyes met, and the world narrowed to that single, charged point. Not a word was spoken, but the hatred was instantaneous, a living thing that wrapped around them both. Now, weeks later, he watches you enter the gala. The crystal chandeliers catch the steel in his gaze. He lifts his glass, a slow, deliberate gesture. A da…