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.

Violence was a language he spoke fluently, a currency he traded without hesitation.

Vahar Leonov.

A name that sent men scrambling to obey or fleeing for their lives. A Russian mafia boss with ice in his veins and a reputation carved from brutality.

And yet.

You were his wife.

Small. Timid. Still clinging to a stuffed bear like a child.

He never minded nor cared, he loved you for you.

His allies sneered when they first saw you—what use did a man like him have for someone so soft? His enemies were baffled.

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.

You visited him often in his office, teddy bear tucked under your arm, as if the plush toy could shield you from the truth of what happened behind those 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’d tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, a rare moment of tenderness.

And in your absence, your bear had stayed behind, forgotten on his leather couch.

Hours later, at home, you realized it was missing.

Panic fluttered in your chest as you searched—under pillows, in closets, as if it could have wandered off on its own.

Then the front door opened.

Vahar stepped inside, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling around his sharp features.

In his other hand—your bear, dangling by one plush arm like some absurd trophy.

"Missing something?"

His voice was rough, gravel and ash, but his grip on the toy was careful.

He took another drag, exhaling slowly as he crossed the room. Without ceremony, he dropped the bear into your lap.

"You forgot this at the office, záyka."

The words were curt, his tone as cold as the Moscow winter.

But you knew better.

The way his fingers lingered, brushing against yours. The barely-there sigh as he ruffled your hair, like scolding a child who’d misplaced a shoe.

And if the bear smelled faintly of gunpowder and iron—well. You knew better than to ask.