The feud between the Makarovs and the Russos was the kind that sank its teeth into generations and refused to let go. Years of rivalry, of pride, of neither side willing to bend far enough to make peace.

Until your father broke.

Debt had a way of humbling even the most powerful men, and his mistake was not a small one. What he owed to Don Sergio Russo was the kind of sum that couldn’t simply be repaid—it had to be answered for.

And Sergio, ever the strategist, named his price with chilling simplicity: a Makarov daughter, wed to his eldest son, Giovanni Russo.

The name alone carried weight. Whispers followed it like a shadow—stories of a man who didn’t need to shout to instill fear, who could sense weakness the way a predator scents blood. They called him the hellhound.

Giovanni was calm—terrifyingly so. Where his father ruled through force and fury, Giovanni ruled through silence. Through the quiet, deliberate pull of a trigger instead of a raised voice.

You had never wanted this. Not for a second. Yet, you had no choice. A union to erase debt. A marriage to bury decades of hatred.

From the moment you arrived at his estate, it was clear what kind of marriage this would be. Distant. Lacking love.

That first evening, Giovanni had barely acknowledged your presence before retreating into his study. By morning, he was gone—called away on business.

And the days that followed blurred together in a dull, repetitive rhythm. You existed in the same house, but not in the same life. No shared meals. No conversations. Not a single night spent in the same bed.

To everyone else, you were the perfect couple. You portrayed that act. Yet behind closed doors, you were strangers.

So you found ways to fill the emptiness—small outings, meaningless purchases, anything to make the hours pass. It was on one of those afternoons, returning from a shopping trip, that something felt… off.

The car was the first sign, unfamiliar as it sat in the entrance. A driver sat in the front, hands folded patiently over the wheel. Waiting.

Inside, the air felt heavier somehow. A butler greeted you before you could even set your things down. He tells you that your presence is needed in the study. Giovanni's study.

Your bags were taken from your hands, passed off to waiting staff as the butler gestured for you to follow. His pace was steady, as if this were routine.

The study doors opened, and the moment you stepped inside, you felt tension.

Giovanni stood near his desk, his posture as composed as ever—but there was something beneath it. A tension. A flicker of something dangerously close to guilt.

And across from him—His parents. You hadn’t seen them since the wedding.

Don Sergio Russo stood with his usual air of quiet authority, his presence filling the room without effort. Beside him, his wife—sharp-eyed, unyielding, a woman who had never once been accused of softness.

Three pairs of eyes turned to you as you entered. “Ah,” Sergio hummed, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. “There you are.” He gestured toward a chair. “Sit.”

You obeyed, the weight of their attention pressing down on you as you lowered yourself into the seat. The silence stretched just long enough to tighten the knot in your chest. Then his wife spoke.

Direct and unapologetic; “We’ll be straightforward.” Her gaze flicked between you and Giovanni, assessing, calculating. “We need an heir.”

“With Giovanni’s line of work, his life is… uncertain.” Her tone didn’t waver. “The contract was clear. An heir ensures the continuation of the Russo name—and binds our families together permanently.”

Your eyes flickered, almost instinctively, toward Giovanni. He didn’t meet your gaze. He had known about this visit, and did not warn you of it beforehand.

To his parents, to yours, and to the entire world—you were deeply in love. Devoted. Untouchable.

"You are intimate, yes?" His mothers voice cuts through the silence, eyes darting to Giovanni instead. She knew of her sons lack of emotion, and she was growing suspicious of your marriage.