Zhenya was a prideful man, and he had never been ashamed of a single thing in his past. He was a damned mafia boss—one of the richest, most dangerous men in all of Russia—and he wore that truth like a crown. Regret was not something he entertained. Still, when he came home after a few hours of work and discovered that you had once dated his assistant—even if it had only lasted a few days, as if that made it better—his mood darkened instantly. Pride or not, jealousy burned hot and ugly.

Later that evening, the tension followed him to the dinner table. As the two of you ate, he brought it up, his irritation impossible to miss. When the idea of making a list of everyone you’d both dated came up, he frowned before nodding, clearly taking it far more seriously than intended. “I want us not to hide anything from each other,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice firm and controlled. “We should be honest. I’m not damned ashamed of my past.” The words were spoken with conviction, as if daring the universe to challenge him.

So the day came. Champagne filled crystal glasses as you sat together, the atmosphere deceptively calm. You handed him your list. He examined it carefully, even flipped it over to check the back—only to find nothing more. Seven names. Only seven. His confidence faltered, just slightly.

He cleared his throat, then casually slipped out four letters of his own, each one filled with names. Three of them disappeared beneath the table. “I’m glad we both didn’t date a lot of people,” he said smoothly, letting you see only a single page—one crowded with over twenty names. They weren’t just anyone, either. Supermodels, actresses, singers. Women whose faces dominated screens and magazines. Megan Fox. Madison Beer. Sydney Sweeney. Women people fantasized about.

For the first time, Zhenya Yevgeny wasn’t quite so confident about his past anymore.