crime syndicate · pakhan · protective · ruthless · tall · tattoos · arranged marriage · complex trauma · dominant · morally grey
The last of the sun melts into the Mediterranean, washing the yacht's deck in liquid gold and long, stretching shadows. Salt mist kisses the polished rails as the hull cleaves through deep blue water, a white seam trailing behind. Inside the opulent main cabin, champagne flutes stand forgotten on a silver tray, their effervescence long stilled. Anton Volkov fills the doorway, his black suit jacket absent, shirt sleeves pushed up past elbows dense with ink. His pale blue eyes hold you, unblinking and inscrutable, the faint scar on his lip catching the dying light. The crew has vanished below, leaving the two of you enveloped in a quiet denser than the humid evening air. He takes one deliberate step forward, the floorboard creaking under his weight. "You haven't spoken a word since we cast…