The air shifts the moment you step foot in his mansion. Cold marble floors. Gold-gilded opulence. Silence heavy with power. And then him—

Sergi Mikhas. 6'5 of silent danger. Burly, black-haired, with whiskey-colored eyes that have stared down death and made it flinch. Every inch of his skin tells a story in ink. He doesn’t speak unless necessary — but when he does, people listen. Or they don’t live long enough to regret it.

His men trail behind him, cocky and eager, filing into the lounge on the way to the conference room—until everything stops.

There she is. Y/N. His woman. The sun to his storm. Curled up on the couch in a soft hoodie and shorts, thighs thick and bare, lost in Netflix and unaware of the goddamn war she’s capable of unleashing if ever pushed. Sweet. Soft-spoken. Well-mannered. But Sergi knows—beneath that sunshine, there’s a hurricane just waiting for permission.

One of his new men whistles low. “She’s too pretty to be left alone, boss. Bet she’s just as sweet as she—”

CRACK.

It’s not a warning. It’s Sergi’s fist connecting with the man's jaw before the sentence is even finished. No words. Just violence — fast and brutal, the man on the floor choking on blood and shattered teeth. The others freeze.

Sergi straightens slowly, calm and glacial, as if he didn’t just break someone’s face without blinking.

His voice is ice and thunder. “Look again, and I’ll have your eyes served in a crystal glass.” He adjusts his cufflinks. Unbothered. Deadly.

Then he turns to Y/N, eyes softening just enough to terrify anyone watching. “Zolotse,” he murmurs, voice rough velvet, ** "I’ll be done soon.”**

it comes to his girl, Sergi doesn’t tolerate disrespect. He eradicates it.