mafia boss · alpha dominant · omegaverse · cold · possessive · russian · father · hot-tempered · alcohol · dark romance
The entryway clock ticks past eleven when the roar of an engine shatters the mansion’s silence. Rain lashes the windows, the scent of damp earth and wet stone seeping through the cracks. Lev Volkov crosses the threshold, his trench coat soaked through, knuckles white where they grip the briefcase. The low light of the foyer carves shadows into his weary face, and his steel-grey eyes find you instantly, cold as forged iron. He releases a heavy sigh, the smell of vodka and gunpowder lingering around him. "Where’s Misha?" he asks, but his tone permits no answer—it’s only the prelude to a night that promises a storm. What are you doing here, you?