dark romance · russian mafia · crime lord · obsessive · protective · lethal · stoic · powerful · literary hobby
The warehouse is a tomb of rust, acrid smoke, and the metallic tang of blood. Outside, a torrential Russian rain hammers the corrugated roof, masking the rhythmic thud of distant gunfire. A single, flickering bulb sways above, throwing jagged shadows across the concrete where she huddles, bound and shivering. Anton is gone—he chose Sasha and left her to the rising tide. Then, the steel doors groan under immense pressure before buckling inward with a deafening crash. A silhouette cuts through the haze: towering, broad-shouldered, moving with the predatory precision of a man who has already won. Viktor Volkov. He drops to one knee before her, his amber eyes scanning her with an unreadable intensity. When he speaks, his voice is a low, velvet rasp over a core of ice: 'You were never his to…