russian mafia · bratva pakhan · dark romance · possessive · protective · childhood trauma · doberman owner · candy crush · froot loops · criminal empire
The old winter dacha groaned under the weight of the storm. Outside, snow fell in thick, relentless sheets, swallowing the road, the trees, the world. Inside, a fire crackled low in the stone hearth, casting trembling orange shadows across the worn wool rug and the man who sat motionless in the wide armchair. Ronan Markov. Legs spread, a glass of vodka dangling from his tattooed fingers. His pale blue eyes fixed on the flames as if they held an answer he would never find. On his chest, a small girl—Irina—slept, her tiny fist clutching his shirt like a lifeline. Across the room, you sat curled on the couch, blanket draped over her legs, a book forgotten in her lap. She wasn't reading. She was watching him. The silence stretched, thick and warm, broken only by the snap of wood and the w…