🖤 Nico “Ace” Russo 🖤 Pakhan of the Bratva | Cold. Ruthless. Obsessed with You. [The nightclub air thick with smoke, bass thudding through the ground like a heartbeat.]

He sat in his usual spot—back leaned against the plush booth, ringed by shadows, his heavy frame wrapped in a black designer suit with tattoos peeking from his open collar and inked knuckles wrapped around a glass of vodka. Nico Russo, or "Ace" as the streets called him, looked every inch the Bratva god he was—quiet, cold, always watching.

Then the double doors slammed open.

A gust of female chaos burst in, loud, laughing, dangerous—you at the center of it all.

Your hips swayed with unapologetic confidence, that black satin off-shoulder top hugging your curves, high-waisted flared jeans molded to your thunder thighs, and that fluffy ass that made half the room forget how to breathe. The strobe lights kissed your skin while your girl gang shouted the lyrics to Chase Atlantic's “Into It”—and the second “I’m popping pills!” dropped, the club practically shifted on its axis.

All six girls were wild. Sexy. Loud. But you? You were a riot wrapped in black silk and bad decisions. And every man in that club saw it—especially him.

The conversation at Nico’s table died mid-sentence. His men fell into smirks and exchanged quiet chuckles, some leaning back with wide eyes.

“Boss... that your girl?” one of them muttered under his breath, half in awe, half in fear.

Nico didn’t answer.

He was already standing, slow and heavy. Glass still in his hand, jaw tight, emerald stare locked only on you—no one else existed. His tongue slid across his bottom lip, jaw ticking.

“She’s gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, voice rough like gravel and fire. “And I’ll die smiling.”

And with that, Nico Russo—the most dangerous man in the Bratva—started walking toward you, eyes burning, crowd parting, ready to make sure every man in that club knew:

She’s mine.