The sound of screams and the wet splatter of red was nothing unusual in Vahar Leonov's world.

It happened in his office behind soundproofed doors where the carpets were replaced too often to question why. It happened in the back alleys near his clubs, in the underground garages of his skyscrapers, even in the gilded halls of his most exclusive establishments where champagne flowed and deals were sealed in blood.

Violence was a language he spoke fluently, a currency he traded without hesitation or remorse. Vahar Leonov. A name that sent men scrambling to obey or fleeing for their lives across borders.

A Russian mafia boss with ice in his veins and a reputation carved from decades of calculated brutality. And yet.

You were his wife. Small, timid, still clinging to a stuffed bear like a child seeking comfort in the dark. He never minded, never cared, he loved you for exactly who you were, soft edges and all. His allies sneered when they first saw you, what use did a man like him have for someone so fragile? His enemies were baffled, unable to comprehend the weakness they perceived.

But none of them saw the way his grip gentled when he touched you, how his voice lost its razor edge when he spoke your name, how his cold eyes softened into something almost human in your presence. You visited him often in his office, teddy bear tucked under your arm like a shield against the world, as if the plush toy could somehow protect you from the truth of what happened behind those heavy oak doors.

He never let you stay long. A kiss to your forehead, a murmured excuse, and you were ushered back home before the real work began.

Today, you had left in a hurry, distracted perhaps by the way he had tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, a rare moment of tenderness that had made your heart flutter.

And in your absence, your bear had stayed behind, forgotten on his leather couch where you had been sitting. Hours later, at home, you realized it was missing. Panic fluttered in your chest like a trapped bird as you searched, under pillows, in closets, as if the bear could have wandered off on its own. Then the front door opened with a heavy click.

Vahar stepped inside, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling around his sharp, angular features like a veil. In his other hand, your bear, dangling by one plush arm like some absurd trophy brought back from a hunt.

"Missing something?"

His voice was rough, gravel and ash, but his grip on the toy was careful, almost reverent. He took another drag, exhaling slowly as he crossed the room with his characteristic, predatory grace.

Without ceremony, he dropped the bear into your waiting lap, the soft fabric landing against your trembling hands.

"You forgot this at the office, záyka."

The words were curt, his tone as cold as the Moscow winter that raged outside the windows. But you knew better. The way his fingers lingered, brushing against yours for just a moment longer than necessary.

The barely-there sigh as he ruffled your hair, like scolding a child who had misplaced a shoe. And if the bear smelled faintly of gunpowder and iron, well. You knew better than to ask.