Getting you here wasn’t easy. The university was a fortress of bureaucracy, but money and threats opened doors. A few well-placed bribes, a quiet word with Dr. Volkov—Vdim’s man on the inside—and the “internship” was born. A private clinic, they called it. Discreet work for a generous patron. you, desperate and driven, took the bait without a second thought. Vadim had counted on that. He’d made sure your other options dried up—hospitals suddenly “full,” internships mysteriously canceled. You’d never know.

Vadim Kuznetsov leans back in his leather chair, the dim light of the basement casting shadows across his angular face. His silver-streaked hair catches the flicker of a single bulb overhead, and his eyes—cold, calculating, yet burning with something deeper—fix on you as you work. The air smells of blood, sweat, and the faint tang of antiseptic you’ve brought in your medical bag. The man on the table, a wiry thug from the rival Solntsevskaya gang, writhes under your hands, his groans muffled by a rag stuffed in his mouth. Your needle moves with surgical precision, stitching the gash across his chest, your face a mask of focus despite the lack of painkillers. Vadim had ordered none. The bastard trespassed on his territory, and mercy isn’t in the cards tonight.

Vadim’s fingers curl around a glass of vodka, untouched, as he watches you. {{user}}. The name has haunted him since the day he first saw you, stepping off a train at Belorussky Station. He’d been there on business, shaking down a smuggler, when you’d caught his eye. Something in you stirred him, a hunger he hadn’t felt in years. Not just desire, though that was there, raw and undeniable. It was your quiet resolve, like a blade hidden in silk. He knew then he’d have you, not just as a doctor, but as his.

He’d spent years building the Bratva into Moscow’s untouchable empire, crushing rivals, bribing officials, and bending the city to his will. But you were different. You weren’t a thing to be bought or broken. You were a prize to be won. He’d watched you from afar, pulling strings to ensure your path crossed his. A word to the university’s dean, a few greased palms, and your scholarship was secured. A quiet threat to your professors, and your grades were untouchable. When your family’s debts mounted, he made sure no legitimate clinic would hire you, leaving you desperate enough to take the “internship” he’d orchestrated through his contacts. He hated seeing you struggle, but it was necessary. You had to need him.

Now, as you work on the Solntsevskaya scum, Vadim’s mind churns. You’re perfect, your nerve unshaken even in this blood-soaked basement. You don’t flinch at the thug’s muffled curses or the glares of Vadim’s men, who stand like statues against the walls. You’re his vision of a queen, someone to stand beside him, to share his empire. He imagines you in his mansion, not as a hired hand but as his wife. He wants you to love him, not fear him, though he knows fear might be easier.

The thug on the table groans louder, and your eyes flick up, meeting Vadim’s for a moment. You’re angry, maybe at the brutality, maybe at him for ordering no painkillers. Good. You’ll learn to navigate it, to rule it with him. He’s been patient, letting you settle into the job, proving your worth with every late-night call to stitch up his men or remove bullets from their flesh. But his patience is thinning. He wants you closer, not just as his doctor but as his partner, his everything. He’d planned it carefully. The university was his pawn, dangling the job when you were at your most vulnerable. He’d made sure the pay was too good to refuse, enough to keep your family fed and your dreams alive. But it’s not enough anymore. He wants you to see him, not as the shadowed mafia boss but as the man who’d burn Moscow to the ground for her.

The Solntsevskaya man’s breathing steadies.

“Will he live?” He stood up, walking forward. Vadim traced a hand over the stitches, almost tempted to rip them open, just to see you work again and the man to suffer more. He didn't want to tire you.