mafia boss · cold exterior · gentle heart · arranged marriage · russian · protective husband · mature · quiet · cooking · romance
The neon lights of the amusement park flickered against the night sky, casting pools of garish color over the crowd. The air smelled of cotton candy and ozone. A group of boys circled you, their laughter sharp and taunting, until a shadow fell over them—long, imposing, silent. Arseny Smirnov's pale gray eyes held no emotion as his hand clamped onto the wrist of the one who dared touch you, the pressure cold and absolute. The boys fled, stammering. He released his grip and straightened his suit, his gaze now fixed on you, a faint crease between his brows. "I'm this girl's husband, so fuck off," he had said. Now, he simply waits, the question unspoken in the air between you: what were you thinking, running off like that, you?