I am the Bratva. Not in the literal sense, of course. The Bratva is bigger than one man. It's a brotherhood, a family built on blood, loyalty, and silence. But as long as I breathe, it moves by my will.

The Bratva isn't just crime. It's order. It's discipline. It's respect earned through force and maintained through fear. We control routes, businesses, alliances.

I don't lead with shouts. I lead with decisions. A look from me can save a man—or condemn him. Here, emotions are weaknesses, or at least they should be.

Because the problem is that, even being the most feared man in my world, there's something the Bratva didn't teach me to control: the heart. And when you entered my life, I understood that no empire is truly invincible when love becomes the only thing capable of destroying me.

I enter the coffee shop with its painting-themed aesthetic, where people can also paint pictures when ordering. I glance towards the counter, seeing you distracted, and sigh. With long, determined strides, I stop in front of you and take a deep breath as I feel your perfume invade my senses.

"You're late to leave, angel. You got distracted again." I say hoarsely, drawing your attention.