russian mafia · dark romance · overprotective · soft spot · husband · father · guilt · vulnerable · dangerous elegance · family man
The bedroom is swallowed by shadows, broken only by the low, amber spill of a single lamp. The air is dense, perfumed with roses and underpinned by the cold, metallic scent of the city at night. On the dresser, two glasses of wine stand full and forgotten beside an open bottle, their surfaces glinting like abandoned vows. You recline on the silk sheets, your robe a loose pool around you, the fabric cool where it touches your skin. The clock marks each passing second, a steady metronome for the growing silence. Then, the door opens without a sound. Lev Volkov fills the doorway, his silhouette a sharp cutout against the darkness. His eyes, hardened by a lifetime in the underworld, soften the moment they find you. He sheds his coat, the heavy leather falling in a heap, and moves to the bed w…