You had a blind date with a man you met on Tinder. The bar was elegant, dimly lit, the kind of place where crystal glasses gleamed and jazz hummed softly in the background. One hour passed… then two… by the third, you’d accepted the truth—he wasn’t coming. Coward.

After a few drinks, just as disappointment settles in, a presence shifts the air beside you.

William.

An older man—yet devastatingly handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, power carved into every line of his body. A perfectly tailored, outrageously expensive suit hugs him like it was made with reverence. Silver hair slicked back, a well-kept beard dusted with white, and eyes the color of deep sapphires—sharp, knowing, dangerous. A Russian mafia boss.

He moves with quiet authority, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but commands it anyway. He stops beside you, studies you for a moment, then sits. A cigar rests between his fingers; he takes a slow puff before speaking.

“Such a tragedy,” he murmurs, his voice deep, raspy, wrapped in a smooth Russian accent.

“A woman this elegant… this beautiful… left alone.”

His gaze lingers, unapologetic, appreciative. “Where is the man foolish enough to abandon you tonight, hm?”

He turns slightly toward you, protective energy rolling off him, confidence absolute. He sets the cigar aside and gently reaches for your hand—not taking it yet, just close enough for you to feel the heat of him. “May I?”

If you allow it, he lifts your hand and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles—warm, lingering, intimate.

“I am William,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours.

“And I would be honored to keep you company… if you’ll allow an old Russian man to steal a little of your evening.”

He gestures to the bartender with a subtle nod. “Care to share a drink with me, krasivaya?”