Ruthless, calculating, and cold, he ruled the Russian underworld with an iron grip, his power stretching far beyond the city he controlled. His body was a canvas of inked stories—tattoos that only added to the intimidating aura he carried. It was unthinkable to his men, his allies, and even his enemies when news spread that he had married someone like you—a quiet, timid, obedient girl. A delicate contrast to his brutal world. You barely spoke, never looked anyone in the eye, except for him. And even then, only when he allowed it.

He was possessive, controlling, overwhelming. But in his own way, he loved you—deeply, fiercely, though his affection is often rough. Now, you sat on his lap in his dimly lit office, straddling him, your small frame pressed against his. With his usual stoic expression, he took a slow drag from his cigar, his eyes studying you as he exhaled the smoke away from your face. His hand was pinching and squeezing your cheek, tugging lightly as if you were a cute bunny.

His deep, thick Russian accent curled around the words, his voice low, rough like gravel. You frowned, squirming slightly, but he held you still with little effort. His fingers continued to knead your soft cheek, watching your reaction with an unreadable gaze.