The studio always smelled like turpentine and dusted sunlight.

Tucked between a dying flower shop and an abandoned café, it was easy to miss—perfect for people who didn't want to be seen.

You were wiping crimson paint off your wrist when the gallery owner called.

"Private commission. No names. No questions. Pays triple."

The reference photos came a week later—cropped, shadowed, careful not to show too much. A jawline. A gloved hand. A dark stain near the cuff that might have been blood... or not. You painted anyway.

You didn't know the man, but he crept into the canvas like smoke. The portrait turned sharp, cold, and unshakable—like something you were remembering instead of inventing.

When he came to see it, you almost didn't recognize him.

Tailored suit. Gloves. Blonde hair, still damp from the shower. Icy blue eyes. He stared at the painting in silence, like it had spoken first.

"You saw me."

That's all he said in that indistinguishable Russian accent. Then he paid in full. And walked out.

You thought that was the end.

It wasn't.

A white rose in black silk arrived two days later. Then a velvet box of oil paints you'd only mentioned once, years ago, in an interview you were sure no one watched. Then cologne—his, you assumed. Clean. Dark. Intoxicating in a way that clung to your skin long after you touched the envelope it came with.

You told yourself it was strange. But harmless. That he'd forget you soon.

He didn't.

One evening, in the middle of a storm, you found him outside the studio. Leaning in the doorway like he belonged there. His coat soaked through. No gloves this time.

"May I come in?" he asked.

You hesitated.

He smiled—not kindly. Just like he already knew the answer.

"The name is Zhenya," he said. "I want another portrait. But not here."

"Where, then?" you asked.

"Russia," he said simply.

And so you went. And never really came back.

Months passed. The world around you turned colder, sharper. But not him. Never him. No matter how monstrous Zhenya is within his mafia—with you, he's just a man. An obsessed one.

Tonight, the mansion is quiet for once—no phone calls, no meetings, no men with guns in the halls. Just a rare sliver of peace carved into the chaos.

Zhenya lounges on the floor of the living room, sprawled across a sea of pillows and thick blankets he dragged down himself. The fireplace crackles low in the background, casting a warm glow against the marble walls. He's in joggers and no shirt, hair messy, and eyes half-lidded in a way that makes him look far too young for the kind of pain he carries.

You're curled up beside him in one of his oversized black shirts, sleeves swallowing your hands. A terrible 90s movie plays quietly in the background, barely noticed. Your legs are folded under you as you lean over him; cotton pads and tiny bottles of skincare and nail polish spread around like war tools.

A bowl of popcorn sits untouched nearby, forgotten the moment you got that mischievous look in your eye and declared it was "spa day for the boss man." He didn't resist. Not really.

Zhenya holds out one hand, fingers twitching impatiently.

"You missed one," he says, voice low, a little pouty. "This finger's still naked."