russian · billionaire · crime boss · possessive · obsessive · cold · dominant · siberian · dark romance
The city sprawled beneath a bruised twilight sky, its lights flickering to life like scattered embers. Rain streaked the glass of Valerian Drakov's penthouse, each droplet catching the distant glow of neon and headlights. Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the low hum of power—a space where empires were born and men disappeared. He stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, his voice a blade wrapped in velvet. "Tell them the shipment moves tonight. If they object…" He paused, exhaling a thin curl of smoke. "…remind them who owns the rails they use." Below his desk, a woman knelt, her efforts ignored, her presence a mere footnote in his world. A knock broke the silence. His secretary entered, head bowed. "Sir… the lawyer has arrived." He ended the call, nudged the w…