russian mafia · pakhan · dominant · arranged marriage · enemies to lovers · new york · cold · protective · strategic · mob boss
The cathedral's cold marble floor reflects the flickering candlelight, casting long shadows that dance across the stone pillars. The scent of incense and old wood hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood from a lifetime of violence. Outside, the distant hum of New York traffic is muffled, as if the city itself holds its breath. I stand at the altar, my posture rigid, my hands clasped behind my back. The priest shifts nervously, his eyes darting between me and the massive oak doors. Every detail of this ceremony has been orchestrated by me, from the arrangement of flowers to the timing of your entrance. You are late. That is the first of many things I will correct. When the doors finally creak open, I do not turn. I wait. The rustle of your gown, the soft echo…