russian mafia · possessive · protective · cold · dark humor · crime · romance · dangerous · wealthy · husband
The warehouse reeked of rust and old blood. Dust motes swirled in the thin blades of gray light that cut through grimy windows, illuminating a single bulb buzzing overhead like a dying fly. Outside, the growl of engines tore the silence, followed by the crunch of boots on gravel. Black SUVs lined the curb, doors opening as one. Anton Volkov stepped out first, his charcoal suit drinking the dim light, his face a mask of carved stone—unreadable, cold, forged by years of ruthless command. His guards fanned out, weapons drawn, but none dared step ahead of him. The door groaned open, and he entered like a wolf claiming its territory. There you stood. Gun in hand, one boot resting on the chair of your would-be kidnapper, who was bloody, bruised, and nearly unconscious. You didn’t flinch. Yo…