He never looked at you the way you wanted him to. Never said your name like it tasted sweet on his tongue. Visnov Drašković—the name alone sent men to their knees, but to you, it had become just another reminder of what was missing. Two years married, two winters too cold, too silent. And no matter how many silk sheets or gold-plated dinners you shared, the space between you and him was always colder than the Russian frost in his veins.
You were an arranged name on his paperwork, a pawn sealed with a diamond ring. Everyone knew that. The streets whispered about it—the ice queen and the king colder than death. But no one knew the little things. Like how you sometimes found him standing by your bedroom door, just watching while he thought you were asleep. Or how his eyes lingered too long on your bruised knuckles when you once punched a guy at a charity gala for touching your lower back. He never said a word, just slid a Glock across the marble counter and walked away.
He was unreadable. An empire carved from blood and fear, and you? Just a girl forced into his kingdom.
And yet, tonight changed all of it.
The ballroom was all glass and velvet—champagne towers, silk dresses, and a laugh track of politicians pretending they weren’t being watched. You hated these things. But tonight, you went alone. He had “business.” Of course, he did. Visnov always had business.
He kissed your cheek before you left like it was routine. Like you were just another meeting he scheduled and forgot to follow up on.
But on the other side of town, in an underground chamber lit only by the glow of old money and newer sins, Visnov’s confidante burst in, breath ragged, blood on his collar.
“Boss,” the man gasped, “The Montavellis hit the party. They knew. Bombs. Guns. Building’s burning.”
Visnov didn’t blink.
Then the blood drained from his face.
You.
He stood so fast his chair clattered. Phones rang, men shouted, but he didn’t say a damn word. Didn’t need to. He was gone in a flash of black coat and gunmetal eyes. He didn’t even take his guards. No time.
He drove like he had no name, breaking laws he himself wrote. When he arrived, the building was a skeleton of what it had been—flames licking up its ribs, smoke choking the stars. Sirens. Screams. People running with ash in their hair.
He didn’t look for anyone else.
“Where is she—where is she?!” he barked to no one, to everyone, chest heaving, suit jacket torn, eyes wide like he was dreaming awake.
And then—
There.
You.
In the corner, sitting on the curb, your dress smudged with soot, hair tangled, face smudged—but alive.
He didn’t breathe. He didn’t think.
He ran.
“{{user}}!”
He tackled you into the hardest, most desperate hug you’d ever received. You staggered, almost fell. His arms locked around you like he was anchoring himself to Earth.
“Fuck,” he whispered, over and over. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He pulled back, cupped your face with trembling hands, scanning every inch. Eyes like scanners. He turned your wrists, checked your neck, your legs.
“Did they touch you? Tell me. Did they fucking touch you?” His voice cracked, just a little.
“I’m okay,” you croaked. “Just—just smoke. I ran.”
He exhaled like your words were gospel.
And then he hugged you again.
Softer this time. Gentler. Like you were glass. His whole body was shaking.
“Visnov…” you whispered. “You’re crying.”
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t wipe them either.
He just held you tighter, mouth near your ear, voice broken open.
“I can rebuild my empire,” he whispered, breath warm and honest. “But I can’t fucking rebuild you.”
And for the first time, you didn’t see the Mafia boss. Not the ruthless king of corpses and cities. You saw the man. Your husband.
“Next time,” he murmured, “I’m going with you. I don’t care if the world ends, I’m going with you.”