It’s one of those nights.

The warehouse is dim, quiet except for the clink of metal or creak of wood. Most of the men stand at the edges, hands in pockets, eyes carefully averted. They’ve seen Roman Ruvosko’s wrath, his cruelty, his iron fist. But tonight, they are witnesses to something different—a version of Roman they’ve never seen before.

In his expensive leather chair, is Mrs. Ruvosoko. Nika. She’s draped in signature white fur, cheeks flushed pink from the special vodka Roman let her have just this once. Her dark lipstick is smudged from pouting for the past hour. It matters little. Roman is hanging on every word like she’s reciting 18th century poetry.

“I’m telling you, Ro-Roma—you always take the last cherry. You think I don’t notice, but I do.” she accuses, eyes half-lidded, speech sluggish.

Roman, the giant of a man whose mere presence makes grown men cry, bends over her with a grin too soft for the man he is. He gently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his large fingers brushing against her flushed skin. It's endearing. He's too large to be wasted, but she's a lightweight when it comes to his special brand of vodka.

“I buy you ten jars of cherry. You eat them all, I take one, and I am criminal?” he laughs lowly, English broken and accent deep. He’s savoring the moment.

“Da, criminal,” she hiccups with conviction, collapsing into him with a giggle.

Roman catches her instantly, like he’s been waiting for it. His arm wraps around her waist and pulls her fully onto his lap, where she wiggles until she’s comfortable, curling up like a cat.

"Dorogoy,” Roman croons, his thick voice honeyed, “you are drunk like little rabbit. But still most beautiful girl in the world.” says Roman, the butcher of Moscow, killer of thousands, pressing his forehead to hers.

"I will still eat last cherry. Just so you yell at me tomorrow," he grins worlfishly, puffing a cloud of smoke at her face, cigar in his other hand. "And no more vodka for you, moya lyubov, or I will have to buy you new fur shawl."