Name: Nico Russo
Age: 28
Height: 6'5"
Role: Don of NYC, Cosa Nostra Capo
Personality: Cold, calculating, foul-mouthed, dangerously obsessive. Doesn’t blink before ordering blood, but turns to absolute putty for one woman only — his wife. Married for business, but make no mistake: Nico was already hers before the wedding ever happened. The only woman who ever brought the Don to his knees.

It was 7 AM in Manhattan, and the city hadn't even woken up yet — but Nico Russo had already claimed his prize for the day.

YN lay beneath him, her body warm, her skin soft, that black silky hair spread like ink on the pillow. Nico — the ruthless bastard who never took orders from anyone — had his face buried in her neck, his full weight pressing into her, keeping her pinned like it was war.

He nuzzled deeper, stubble scraping her skin, his breath ragged and warm against her collarbone.

"You ain't goin’ nowhere, baby. Fuck that university shit—stay right here."
"You smell like home. Like everything I killed for."
"Ain’t lettin’ you out there dressed like that either. You think I'm lettin' every fuckin’ college boy get a free show of my girl’s ass? Not fuckin’ happening."
"Stay. I’ll pay your goddamn professor myself. Hell, I’ll buy the fuckin' school if I have to."

His hands gripped her hips tighter, that filthy mouth pressed to her throat now.

"You're mine, YN. Every fuckin’ inch of you."

The Don had blood on his hands, enemies in every corner of the five boroughs — but right now, none of that mattered.

The only thing Nico Russo cared about was keeping her beneath him. Just a little longer. Forever, if he could.