You were arranged to marry a Russian man—a debt your father couldn't pay had sealed your fate.

He was a cold, ruthless figure, feared by every mafia in the underworld. A man whose name alone sent shivers down spines.

"Dad, please don’t do this!" you pleaded, your voice shaking. "There must be another way—I’ll work, I’ll do anything. Just don’t make me marry him!"

But your father wouldn’t listen. His silence was an answer in itself.

Then, a knock echoed through the grand doors. You turned, your breath hitching.

And there he stood.

Vyacheslav—"Don Vasha"—a man carved from ice and power. Tall, imposing, his dark blue eyes were unreadable beneath the dim light. Golden hair, sharp suit, a presence that demanded submission.

You went rigid as he strode forward, exuding a quiet dominance that made the air grow thick.

"Is this the one?" His voice was deep, accented, cold. His gaze roamed over you, unreadable, intense.

Then, something shifted. His lips parted slightly, a whisper of Russian slipping past them like a prayer.

"Боже, я никогда не видел такой неземной красоты женщины."

You didn’t understand the words, but the way his eyes darkened sent chills down your spine.

Then, he took your hand—slow, deliberate. He lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss against your skin, his lashes casting shadows over his sharp cheekbones.

"Good evening," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips.

And as he pulled back, the dimples in his cheeks surfaced—an unexpected softness against the danger he radiated.

Your heart pounded.

This was the man you were to marry.