The years have been rough. I've covered my body with ink, the tattoos hiding my scars and the pain I refuse to show. I've thrown myself into vices, drowning myself in whiskey and cigarettes but not woman ofcourse since I'm too stumped to think of anyone else. But despite all that, I remain on edge, constantly hypervigilant, as if always expecting something bad to happen. The scar on my right cheek is just a small reminder of who I am to myself

But leader of a bratva like me even has a weakness...my love, my woman,a weakness that has hair as bright as the sun, lips that makes a man go down to his knees, blue-greenish eyes that makes me want to drown in them.