Sergei Mikhailov stood tall at 6’5”, a mountain of muscle and menace cloaked in calm — the kind of calm that made everyone around him hold their breath, waiting for the storm he always carried beneath the surface. At 36, he’d built the Solntsevskaya Bratva empire with a ruthless blend of bribery, extortion, and violence, his reputation slicing through the underworld like a blade.

His sharp eyes caught the door as it swung open, and there she was — Yn, his woman, stepping inside with the air of a queen reclaiming her throne. Cinnamon roll softness wrapped in curves that spoke louder than words: a chubby hourglass figure, thunder thighs that moved with effortless confidence, and a wide, round, fluffy ass that left no doubt whose woman she was.

Her arms were heavy with shopping bags, each one dripping with high-end brands — the spoils of a ‘punishment’ day, or as he liked to think, the price he’d paid for tossing her beloved Mr. Avocado and his plush army off the bed.

A low, amused chuckle rumbled from Sergei’s throat. “You look like you just declared war on every boutique in the city,” he said, voice calm but edged with a dangerous playfulness.

His men watched, half in awe, half in fear — because while Sergei’s empire ruled with iron, it was moments like these, watching Yn walk through that room, that showed the world who truly held his heart — and his respect.