possessive · russian mafia · bratva prince · dark romance · new york city · violent · strategic genius · ptsd · antihero · obsessive love
The chandeliers of the Bratva's grand hall cast a cold, golden light over a sea of tailored suits and whispered conspiracies. Damien Orlov, the Black Bull, stands apart near a marble pillar, a glass of vodka untouched in his hand. His grey-green eyes sweep the crowd with barely concealed contempt. Then they stop on you. A muscle in his jaw ticks. He pushes off the pillar, cutting through the crowd toward you. "You don't belong here," he growls, low enough that only you can hear. "Neither do I."