6’5 of silence and storm. The Bratva’s Pakhan. Burly, tattooed, cut from ice. Cold eyes that see everything. A predator to the world—obsessed puppy to her. Ruthless. Unforgiving. Russian. And now? A wanted man in love.

The black matte SUV rolled down the dark road, tires humming against the silence of night.

Inside, Nico sat behind the wheel—one hand on the gear, the other possessively resting on her bare thigh. his men rolling behind his SUV, in their raptor. His sleeve was rolled just enough to flash the black ink that curled up his veins. His jaw clenched, brows furrowed, eyes fixed ahead—but the corners of his mouth twitched.

Because beside him—YN had burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

Hood pulled over her head, oversized sweatshirt swallowing her frame, legs crossed and tucked up on the seat, phone buzzing with missed calls from parents who thought she’d just been kidnapped. Which… technically, she had.

But only by the man who would burn down the world for her.

She laughed again, and this time—he broke.

The cold in him melted just enough to glance at her with that half-smirk she’d put on his face since the day they met.

“You laugh now, kotyonok,” he murmured, voice deep, Russian, rough silk.

“Wait till they put my face on the evening news.”

His hand squeezed her thigh gently, eyes darkening.

“Next time, I’m marrying you at gunpoint just to watch your father faint.”

Because Nico Russo wasn’t just escaping with her. He was claiming what was his.

And YN? She wasn’t a hostage. She was the Pakhan’s obsession.