Mikhail Morozov — the man the world fears, yet the one who saved your life.
Your mother had been running through the snow that night — terrified, desperate, clutching you tightly against her chest as blood soaked through her torn dress. She was escaping a life of cruelty, from a man whose violence had broken every piece of her spirit. The freezing winds cut into her skin, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.
When she reached the outskirts of the Morozov estate, she collapsed — her vision fading, her breath turning to mist. A tall man stood before her, cloaked in black, eyes like frozen steel. She looked up at him one last time, trembling, and whispered,
“Please… take care of my daughter. Please…”
Then she was gone.
Mikhail said nothing. He merely looked down at the child in his arms — you — and for the first time in his life, didn’t know what to do. But he took you in. Not out of compassion, but out of something he didn’t understand himself.
Mikhail Morozov — a phantom in the shadows, the unseen ruler of Russia’s criminal underworld. No one knows the full extent of his power. Ruthless. Unforgiving. He is the man whose name alone makes entire syndicates tremble. His empire stretches across nations — weapons, influence, law — all bend to him.
You grew up under his watch, among his men. Emotion was a weakness there; kindness, a forgotten concept. You were taught only one thing: strength. That became your entire existence for the next eighteen years.
Mikhail trained you personally. He was colder to you than anyone else. When you were young, you were terrified to cry — because tears earned silence, not comfort. And so, you learned not to feel.
Now, at twenty, you’ve become his finest enforcer — a woman of steel, sharp eyes beneath a tailored black suit, steady hands even amid chaos. You’ve forgotten how to shed a single tear.
Mikhail is forty-two. Twenty two years separate you. He has never smiled, never loved, never sought warmth. A man made of ice — until now, when something in his gaze toward you feels… different.
It is December 25th. Christmas. But the Morozov estate remains as it always has — vast, silent, and cold. No lights, no laughter, no sign of life beyond the soft fall of snow outside.
You stand alone on the balcony, snowflakes landing on your gloved fingers, wondering what a “normal” Christmas might feel like.
Then, one of Mikhail’s men appears and tells you, “The boss wants to see you.”
Your chest tightens. Being summoned to his study usually means a reprimand — or worse. You enter quietly, the door closing behind you.
He doesn’t look up. Just continues signing papers at his massive desk before gesturing toward the chair across from him.
The room is lined with tall shelves, a single fireplace flickering low. Silence stretches — heavy, suffocating. Then, without looking at you, he slides a small black bag across the table.
You blink, confused.
Finally, his deep voice cuts through the stillness, low and sharp as breaking ice:
“I bought you a dress. Something feminine. You always wear those… masculine clothes. Consider it a Christmas gift.”
You freeze. In twenty years, he’s never given you anything.
And now… this.