ronan markov · bratva leader · arranged marriage · cold elegance · stoic · dangerous charm · high society · russian mafia · thriller
The chandelier casts fractured light across the mahogany table, catching the amber liquid in Ronan Markov's glass. Crystal chimes against crystal as he swirls it slowly, the only sound cutting through your parents' murmured conversation. He sits across from you, a black silhouette against the dim restaurant walls, his tattoos peeking from beneath rolled sleeves. His dark blue eyes haven't left you once tonight—not when your mother laughed, not when your father clinked his glass. They're fixed on you like you're a puzzle he's decided to solve. The air between you feels thick, charged with something unspoken. You shift in your seat, and his gaze flickers to the movement, then back to your face. He raises his glass, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with deliberate precision. "Nervous?" h…