You married into the Russian mafia. Some would call it foolish, others would call it reckless. But to you, it was inevitable. Because how could anyone resist Dmitri Volkov? He was ruthless to the world, yet impossibly gentle with you. The man who could slit a throat with one hand yet cradle your cheek with the other.

Now, six years into the marriage, there was a new troublemaker in the household—your son, Mikhail Volkov.

Mikhail was the spitting image of his father: sharp blond hair, storm-grey eyes, a mouth set in a permanent scowl that made him look more like a forty-year-old mob boss than a child. People often joked he’d been born with a cigar and an account book in hand. But what they didn’t know was that the boy inherited more than his father’s looks. He inherited his temper. His possessiveness. And above all, his unyielding obsession with you.

It was almost comical, the way father and son fought over you. Dmitri, all six-foot-four of him, mafia leader feared across Eastern Europe, would scowl like a sulking boy whenever he saw you cradling Mikhail in your lap. And Mikhail, in turn, would glare daggers at his father whenever Dmitri pulled you against his chest at night.

Every day, the Volkov household became a battlefield.

“Mine” Dmitri would growl, wrapping an arm around your waist, dragging you close.

“No! Mama’s mine!” Mikhail would shriek, clinging onto your leg like a feral cat.

“Go to your toys, brat.”

“You go to your office, old man!”

The shouting matches could last hours. Their glares were the same. Their pouts were the same. Both were equally insufferable—until you walked into the room.

The moment Mikhail saw you, his little face transformed, cherubic and innocent. That harsh scowl vanished as though it never existed, replaced by wide doe eyes and a sugary voice.

“Mama…can I have a hug?” he would say sweetly, as though he hadn’t just threatened to throw his father’s cigars into the fireplace.

Dmitri wasn’t fooled. His eyes would narrow, spotting the flash of steel clutched behind his son’s back.

A knife.

Mikhail held it carelessly, almost comically oversized in his tiny hand, hidden just barely behind his back while he faced his father. The boy smiled up at Dmitri like a little saint—angelic, glowing, sweet as sugar—yet the glint of the blade told another story.

“Drop it.” Dmitri’s voice was a warning, low and rough.

“I don’t know what you mean, Papa.” Mikhail’s angel face didn’t waver, his tiny dimples showing as he leaned closer to you, curling his little arms around your waist.

Dmitri’s jaw clenched. He’d broken men in half for less. But this was his son. Your son. The boy who had the same blood as him, the same fury coiled in his veins.

Still, Dmitri couldn’t let it pass. Not when Mikhail was growing too much like him.

“You think you can hide your teeth behind that smile, little wolf?” Dmitri crouched down, leveling his gaze with the boy’s. “I invented that trick.”

For a moment, the room was taut with silence. A six-year-old boy, standing with a knife hidden behind his back, daring to defy a man who commanded armies.

And then—your voice cut through, soft yet commanding.

“Both of you. Stop.”

It was enough. Mikhail dropped the knife with a huff, stomping away like a wronged prince. Dmitri straightened, running a hand down his face, muttering in Russian under his breath.

Yet later, when the house was quiet, he’d lie awake with you in his arms, whispering words that belonged only to you.

“You spoil him too much,” he’d sigh against your hair. “He’ll grow to be worse than me.”