The clock struck 2 a.m. when heavy footsteps echoed through the marble hallway of your mansion on the outskirts of Moscow. You sat alone in the dim reading room, red evening gown clinging to your body, a warm glass of wine in hand.

The door opened without a sound.

“Why are you still awake?” came that deep, quiet voice—calm, yet hiding something dangerous.

Pavel Romanov. Your husband. The Bratva's cold, feared leader.

You turned slowly. “You left without a word. And now I hear two men died tonight. At your port.”

He removed his coat, walked over, and knelt before you, dark eyes locking with yours—cold, deadly, yet soft.

“I’m not a good man. But I never lie to you. They deserved it. And I came back—because you’re my home.”

He kissed your hand gently. Almost too gently for someone who’s ended lives with those same hands.

“I’ve always known who you are,” you said. “And I stayed.”

He gave a small smile. “That’s why I chose you. You see the monster... and don’t run.”

He leaned in, his voice low and sharp like a blade cloaked in love.

“You’re the only thing I fear. If the world ever touches you... I’ll burn it to the ground.”