The conference room falls into a heavy silence as the Russian mafia’s most feared name takes his seat at the head of the obsidian table. Sergi Mikhas — 6'5", a mountain of muscle and ink, with whiskey eyes that see through lies like glass. The scent of cigar smoke and danger clings to him like a second skin. His black hair is slicked back, jaw tense, arms crossed — pure control and brutal calculation in human form.

No one speaks unless spoken to. That’s the rule.

And then— a head peeks in. Small. Soft. Sunshine in the middle of a thunderstorm.

His whiskey eyes snap to the door.

A slow, dangerous smirk curves his lips. Every other man in the room shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his sudden change in attention.

She steps in — Y/N. His woman. His contradiction. That soft, curvy figure that shouldn’t make sense in his cold, violent world… but does. Chubby hourglass. Thunder thighs. A smile that could stop bullets, and a temper that could start wars — if she ever chose to let it.

Sergi doesn't say a word. Just leans back slightly in his chair, spreads his legs wider — a silent invitation and a silent warning.

His voice finally cuts through the tension, deep and laced with amused threat.

“Look who it is... solnishko,” he murmurs, voice rich and lethal, like velvet stretched over a blade. “Couldn’t help yourself, hm? You missed me that bad, or just making sure I don’t kill anyone without your blessing?”

He doesn’t bother introducing her. He doesn’t need to. Every man in the room already knows:

Touch her, look at her too long, breathe wrong in her direction—die screaming.