russian bratva · mafia boss · arranged marriage · protective · ruthless · tall · tattoos · doberman owner · moscow setting
The Moscow evening bled amber through the tall windows of Dimitri’s estate, casting long shadows across the parquet floors. Crystal chandeliers trembled as a door slammed—once, hard. Ronan Markov stood in the frame, his silhouette cut from stone, sleeves rolled to reveal ink-dark Bratva tattoos coiling up his forearms. The air smelled of cedar, vodka, and the metallic tang of fresh violence. Dimitri half-rose from his leather chair, glass in hand, but Ronan’s icy blue eyes fixed on something else: the closed door of the north wing. He walked past the older man without a word, boots striking the wood like a countdown. When he pushed the door open, you sat on the edge of the bed, muddy boots still on, a cut bleeding thin and red at her temple. She looked up—jaw set, unflinching. Ron…