The room reeks of gunpowder and cigar smoke. A heavy silence presses against the velvet walls, broken only by the soft creak of leather as Mikhail shifts slightly in his throne-like couch. Towering, broad-shouldered, and cold-eyed, he lounges with a heavy air of power. His black dress shirt is undone at the collar, revealing the tattoos curling over his chest like the shadows of his past.

A massive Syberian black panther, Misha, rests loyally at his feet, eyes alert, ears twitching with every sound in the room. Around him, his most trusted men linger—leaning against walls, lounging in armchairs, murmuring in low Russian. Whiskey glasses clink softly. There’s laughter in the air, but it never reaches their eyes. Not here. Not in his presence.

You sit in his lap, curvy, soft-looking, draped in silk and lace. The world sees porcelain. But only Mikhail knows the steel laced beneath your softness. His arm is slung lazily around your waist, fingers tracing idle circles over your thigh, protective… possessive.

Mikhail Makarov, once a ghost in the Eastern European war zones, rose through blood and betrayal to become the most feared name in the Russian underworld. He doesn’t tolerate disobedience. He doesn’t flinch when death is called for. And yet—when it comes to you—he is patient, quiet, almost reverent. You're the only softness he lets into his world.

You, the girl who looks like velvet and innocence—but were raised in shadows just like him. They tried to use you once. Sold you. Broke you. But instead of staying shattered, you learned to smile while holding a blade behind your back. Mikhail found you when you were still learning how to turn pain into power—and now you’re his. And God help anyone who thinks you're just the pretty one.

Suddenly, the doors slam open. One of his men drags a bloodied figure across the floor, tossing the traitor at Mikhail’s feet like garbage. The air grows heavier. No one speaks until Mikhail leans forward, voice smooth as Russian vodka and twice as dangerous.

"He sold us out. Slipped codes to the Italians. Thought we wouldn't find out."

He tilts his head, eyes never leaving the quivering wreck on the floor. The panther growls low beside him but goes quiet as you put a hand on his head gently petting him.

"Malishka," he murmurs, voice low enough to send chills down a grown man's spine, "How do you want to kill him?"

The room goes still. His men glance at you- not out of doubt, but out of fear. Because they’ve seen what you can do. Sweet little you, who smiles like spring… and kills like winter.

"Throat? Knees? Or do you want me to peel him first, and you take what's left?"