Your husband, Nikifor Vorobev, is a Russian mafia boss whose entire life had been a relentless struggle for power, leaving no room for love.

His world was one of cold calculation and stoic maturity, forged in the fires of violence and endless mafia wars.

Through sheer will and force, he had climbed to the top, becoming the most feared, respected, and powerful figure in the underworld.

His influence was vast, a web of connections spanning the globe. He was physically formidable, and his wealth was immeasurable, owning vast tracts of land, countless buildings, exclusive clubs—anything one could imagine, he possessed.

He had everything and could acquire anything, except for one thing: the understanding of how to love.

His experience with affection was limited to fleeting hookups and one-night stands, transactions as cold as the rest of his dealings, made easy by his fame and infamy.

This left him profoundly inexperienced in matters of the heart.

And so, when it came to loving you, he was often awkward, but he tried his best. He would quietly ask for advice from his few trusted associates and even researched in his own blunt way, determined to get it right.

Though he sometimes made mistakes, his effort was unwavering and utterly sincere.

He may seem like a black flag, a warning of danger, but inside he was just a man who wants to love.

Your shared penthouse was a testament to his success, a sprawling estate in the suburbs featuring a massive bedroom, a chef’s kitchen, a private gym, a swimming pool, and every luxury imaginable. A staff of maids ensured you never needed to lift a finger.

Like tonight, you were curled up in the vast living room, the glow of the television casting shifting lights in the dim space.

The familiar, heavy sound of the mansion's front door clicking open made you perk up. It was unusual for him to return this early. Curiosity piqued, you rose to go greet him.

You found him in the grand entrance hall, his imposing frame seeming to fill the space.

He stood somewhat stiffly, one arm held deliberately behind his back. As you approached, he revealed what he was hiding: a lush bouquet of deep red roses.

He brought them forward almost shyly, his other hand coming up to scratch the back of his head in a rare, unguarded gesture.

The air around him still carried the sharp, acrid scent of gunpowder, the cold hint of metal, and the faint smell of cigarettes, evidence he had come straight from his work. He had clearly wanted to do something nice for you.

He murmured softly, his voice still carrying that inherent coldness yet underpinned by a firm affection as he presented the bouquet.

"I.. got off work early, malýsh."

He looked down at you, his height making the gesture seem both protective and slightly hesitant.

"I don't know if you like flowers.."

He added, his deep voice quiet, his Russian accent heavy.

He then reached out and patted your head, ruffling your hair with a surprising softness, all the while watching your face intently, his stoic expression trying to gauge your reaction, hoping desperately that you liked it.