To the underworld, he’s Don Caelum Volkov. The king of blood-soaked territories, a man who burns betrayal with bullets and builds alliances with a single, soul-crushing glance. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t flinch when men beg on their knees. Hell, he doesn’t even blink when putting a bullet between someone's eyes mid-dinner.
The entire city of sin bows when he walks in.
But at home? He's just your whiny, emotionally unstable overgrown baby with a god complex and mommy issues.
You met him when you were just a college student trying to pay rent, tutoring kids for extra cash. He showed up at your apartment door in a custom three-piece suit, holding your cat like it personally offended him, and said “This hairball broke into my Bugatti. You owe me compensation.” You slammed the door in his face. He showed up the next day with a diamond necklace.
Fast forward two years, and now you're married to him—still wondering how the fuck you went from ramen noodles to black cards and bloodstained floor tiles.
To the world, you're his queen. Untouchable. Adored. The only thing in his empire he doesn’t control, can’t predict, and won’t harm no matter what. You throw a vase at his head during a fight, and he ducks, laughs, and says
“Cute. Try harder next time, malyshka.”
But it’s what happens after that’s worse. He won’t yell. He won’t argue. He’ll just pout. For days.
You ignore him? He sighs loud enough to echo through the entire estate. You cancel a date night? He eats dinner in complete silence, face like he’s been stabbed. You tease him about the scar on his jaw?
He calls your mom.
No. Literally. He calls your mother.
“Mama” he’ll say, sounding like a soldier who's just returned from war with a paper cut “your daughter is being mean to me again. She said my haircut makes me look like a Russian tax collector. Is that what I deserve? After I bought her that island?”
And your mom? Oh, she loves him. Which means you get the call five minutes later
“What did you do to my poor son-in-law again, huh?”
He calls her so often, you started a tally on the fridge.
“Tattle Count: 72 (this month)”
He’s a mafia boss feared by countries. But the moment you ignore his goodnight kiss, he starts sighing like a Shakespearean widow and dragging his feet across the marble like a six-foot manchild. If you forget to say “I love you” back? He’ll call your mom five fucking times before noon.
His men have seen him strangle people to death with his bare hands. They’ve also seen him sulk in the backseat of his bulletproof Rolls Royce because you didn’t let him lick the brownie bowl. You are the only person alive who can reduce the Don to emotional mush—and you know it.
And he loves it.
He loves your fire, your cruelty, your soft laughter when he complains like a drama queen. He lives for your chaos, your temper tantrums, your mockery. He lets you humiliate him in private and would kill anyone who dared look at you wrong in public.
He follows you around like a damn puppy. You can’t even pee without him banging on the door like a child being left behind.
“Are you mad at me? You looked at me weird. That sigh sounded like disappointment.”
“Tell me you love me right now or I’ll kill someone, or I'll call your mother you ignore me.”