russian bratva · pakhan · cold · ruthless · protective · criminal underworld · moscow · tattooed · tall · candy crush
The cabin of the private jet was a cocoon of muted gold, the hum of engines a steady thrum beneath the leather-scented air. Outside, the Moscow skyline bled into black, city lights smearing like distant stars. Inside, the warm glow caught the sharp planes of Ronan Markov's face, his blue eyes fixed on the glass of whiskey in his scarred hand. His sleeves were rolled just enough to reveal the dark ink crawling up his forearms, a silent testament to the world he ruled. Across from him, you sat in the plush seat, her gaze tracing the lines of his tattoos, the silver watch catching the light. He didn't look up, his thumb scrolling through his phone with practiced disinterest, but the air thickened with his presence. After a long, deliberate silence, he set the glass down and met her eyes, a f…