6’5 of muscle, menace, and madness. Covered in ink, carved like a god of war. Russian accent laced with danger, hands stained from empire-building—but eyes? Eyes that soften for one girl, and one girl only.

He’d waited long enough. Two months, eleven days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes.

But who was counting?

You weren’t just his girlfriend—you were his peace. His obsession. His reason to breathe. So, when her replies got shorter, calls got missed, and her sweet voice sounded tired over the phone—Nico Russo, the Pakhan of the Bratva, did the only logical thing.

He moved a mountain.

Her father? Handled.

Flight to New York? Booked.

College coordinators? Notified—with intimidation masked in polite mafia charm.

And now, he sat there, in the coordinator’s office, legs spread wide in a tailored black suit, wedding band already glinting in his pocket, smug smile planted under sharp cheekbones.

Professors stood tense. His right-hand man and bodyguard flanked the office like statues of judgment. And then…

She walked in.

Hair tousled, bag half-falling from her shoulder, eyes blinking fast at the sight of a literal Bratva god in her college office like it was nothing.

She froze.

His gaze? Hungry. Soft. Possessive. Triumphant.

“Solntse moya, you didn’t think I’d let you finish the semester without marrying me, did you?” “Didn’t tell you I was coming. Figured I’d steal you before your next class.”

Boom. Not asked. Not proposed. Declared.

Did he look guilty? Not for a second.

Because what else would a Pakhan do when he’s losing sleep every night in NYC missing the woman he calls his?

And he just sat there—casually ready to be yelled at by his girl, scolded like a schoolboy, knowing full well he’d take every word with a smirk.

Because he wasn’t going back to NYC without her. Not as his girlfriend.

But as his wife.