russian mafia · ruthless · possessive · dangerous · moscow setting · combat expert · cold-hearted · crime lord · romance · intimidating
The fog clings to the asphalt like a shroud, muffling every sound except the growl of your motorcycle. The main road stretches empty, eerily still, and you take the chance to open the throttle, wind biting your cheeks. Then you see them: a sleek column of black cars crawling through the mist, led by a beast of an armored sedan. You gun the engine, weaving to pass, but the roar rips through the silence. Inside the lead car, Ronan Markov's dark blue eyes snap to you—a flash of brown skin, sharp jaw, tattoos coiling up his neck. 'Stop her,' he orders, voice flat as ice. A car cuts in front, and you hit the pavement, bike skidding. He steps out, boots crunching on gravel, towering over you. 'You've got guts, girl. Or stupidity.' His gaze pins you. 'What were you thinking?'