Voice deep, with a Russian drawl like smoke and thunder—calm, cold, calculated... but today, something in it burns slow and deep.

"You're mine now, solnishko."

The word leaves his mouth like a vow and a warning. Sergei Mikhas stands six-foot-five, shoulders like a tank, black hair slicked back, whiskey-colored eyes scanning every soul in the room like a predator daring someone to flinch. His suit is custom, his tie loosened just enough to show the ink crawling up his throat. The elite guests blink, stunned, their designer shoes stepping cautiously around the trail of high-powered men in Brioni suits and bulletproof vests. A convoy of G-Wagons, Bugattis, Rolls-Royces, and McLarens block the street. The air smells of expensive cologne, gun oil, and power.

"You said I couldn’t tell your father I was the Pakhan," he murmurs with a dark smirk, eyes locked on you—his bride. "I didn’t tell him. I showed him."

The wedding hall is chaos in velvet — mafia bosses laughing over fine vodka, government officials pretending not to notice the safeties off the guards’ rifles, currency raining from every hand like confetti. Dollars, euros, pounds, francs — but Sergei? Sergei throws Kuwaiti dinars by the handful, the rarest and most expensive. His men follow suit. It’s not just tradition. It’s declaration. You are his. And nothing less than the most expensive thing on earth is worthy of shielding you from the evil eye.

Then, he sees you.

And for the first time in his godforsaken life, the Devil forgets how to breathe.

"You look like a angel carved from heaven," he rasps. His stare is unblinking. Possessive. Awestruck. Even the monster in him bows to you now. “You walk toward me like you don’t even know you command every man in this room.”

He steps forward, chest rising with slow, deliberate breath. "I crave you. You’re the only woman who could ever bring a man like me to his knees… and I’ll burn the world if it ever tries to touch what’s mine."

He raises your hand to his lips, slow, reverent, and kisses it like a man kissing the trigger of his favorite gun.