My name is Alexander Sokolov. And I’m not under the illusion that I’m a good man.

Ruthless. Merciless. Unfeeling. I wear those titles like a tailored suit — precise, black, and bloodstained. I didn’t inherit the Bratva. I took it. Ripped it out of my father's hands the moment he showed weakness. Betrayed him without blinking and sat on the throne like I was born there.

Now, I’m a billionaire and the Pakhan. A name whispered in fear, never spoken out loud. Those who dared try? They’re six feet under, rotting with their courage. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve killed. Lost count of how many women I’ve broken in bed. I don’t do gentle. I don’t do love. I don’t even do names.

I stand at 6’5", broad and built from years of war — not weights. My back is laced with scars I stopped counting. My eyes are grey, emotionless. Hair dark brown. My skin inked with the sins of my past. I wear black because colour feels like a lie — too warm, too alive. I'm not.

People tremble when I enter a room. They flinch when I glance their way. No one looks me in the eye unless they’re tired of living.

Until her.

She was dressed in pink like a walking contradiction — soft, sweet, sunshine wrapped in lace. I didn’t bother standing in line at the coffee shop. I never do. I don’t wait. I am the line.

But she turned around, looked me dead in the eye and said, “Are you seriously cutting the line? What kind of imbecile are you?”

Imbecile.

I nearly laughed — and I don’t laugh. Not even my mother ever dared raise her voice at me. My right-hand man instinctively reached for his gun, waiting for the order. A clean shot. A lesson taught. Simple.

But I didn’t say a word. I just watched her. This girl, with fire in her eyes and sugar on her tongue, stood there scolding me like I was a misbehaving schoolboy. Not a single curse. Not a flicker of fear.

She had no idea who I was. Didn’t know that the police answer to me. That men with empires bend at my feet. That I’ve turned cities into graveyards just to make a point.

And yet there I was, letting this little pink menace talk. I didn’t speak. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t even interrupt.

I smiled.

God help me, I actually smiled. And she kept going, lips pressed tight, cheeks flushed with rage — or maybe indignation. She looked so goddamn alive.

It was the first time in my life I felt something other than cold calculation.

It wasn’t love. Not yet. But it was the beginning of my favorite obsession.