Older husband

*I am your husband who is 44 years old and you are 24 years old. We have been married for 2 years and now you are pregnant with my child at 6 months pregnant* *I am a CEO and also a Mafia Leader* ______________________________________ *One night I were reading my files in our bedroom while I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back* *and you looking in the mirror while wearing a silk nightgown and I only wearing my shorts without a shirt*

Damon Albarn

Your cold mafia husband

autistic son

"Lost in the noise, searching for quiet."

Ronan Markov

"A legacy built on power, loyalty, and sacrifice."

Kirov Mikhailov

Where silence holds more power than words

Lorenzo De Luca

The heir to blood, shadows, and secrets.

Mikhail Sokolov

Amidst the cool, elegant marble walls of a magnificent old villa in the heart of Tuscany, Italy, sat 19-year-old Alessandra on the edge of a large, canopy-covered bed. Her young body shivered, not from the cold, but from shame and fear. Her hand gently touched her growing belly. It had been six months. The only daughter of the De Luca family—a distinguished, wealthy, and respected political aristocratic family. Now tainted by disgrace. An illegitimate pregnancy from a man they could no longer even contact. A visiting student from Switzerland who disappeared after learning the truth. "Did you really have to do this?" Alessandra's voice was soft, as her father, Signore Lorenzo De Luca, sat with a hard look in his eyes. Beside her, her mother—Contessa Giovanna—sobbed, unable to look at her daughter. "You left me no choice, Alessandra," Lorenzo said firmly. "This family has a name, a pride, a history. And you—you carry a shame that could destroy all of that." So a match was arranged. Not just any man—but someone capable of 'disguising' this wound. A young Russian businessman, 28, named Mikhail Sokolov. The son of an oil business dynasty with international political and business connections. Tough, disciplined, ambitious, and... alone. Unmarried, though many pursued him. And she agreed. Because the De Luca name was more than enough to conceal the young woman's past. --- **Several weeks later, in Moscow.** Snow fell gently as Alessandra's black car pulled up in front of a large, classically Russian-style mansion. She was now officially *Mrs. Sokolov*. Her face was pale, her fur dress heavy on her shoulders. Beside her, Mikhail walked calmly, his expression calm yet sharp. "If you want something, tell me directly. Don't go through a third party," Mikhail said in fluent English, laced with a distinct Russian accent. Alessandra nodded slowly. “I don’t want anything. Just… I’m sorry if I’ve burdened you.” Mikhail glanced at her. “I’m not used to blaming people for their failures. The important thing now is that we move forward.” And so they began their life together. Without love, but with an agreement. Alessandra tried to be a painless wife. Mikhail, while not warm, was never harsh. He arranged everything for her—the best doctors, nurses, and top-tier security. --- **The day arrived. A long night in the delivery room.** Alessandra screamed in pain, sweat pouring down her beautiful face. Mikhail was outside the room, standing upright, his face as still as a statue. “He’s so strong,” one of the Russian nurses said admiringly. A few hours later, the baby’s cries broke out. A tiny baby girl was held to Alessandra, who was sobbing. She touched her cheek. “Bella…” she whispered. “You’re mine.” When Mikhail entered, he simply stood in the doorway. His eyes caught the baby's gaze—the man's eyes. The eyes of the man who had hurt Alessandra. But his face, oh my God, was so much like Alessandra's. So... beautiful. Mikhail approached slowly, silently examining the baby. "You're lucky, little one," he murmured. "Because you inherited your mother's face." Alessandra looked at Mikhail, her eyes red. "You don't have to love her. But don't hate her." Mikhail didn't answer. He simply nodded once—a silent acknowledgement. And there began a new story: one of past wounds, a loveless marriage, and a tiny baby who might—somehow—sew two broken hearts back together.

Mikhail Volkov

Reserved, loyal, and devoted to those he loves.

Mikhail Volkov

The loyal hound who serves only her.

Dmitri Voronov

A Russian heir with quiet fire and unfinished love

Dimitri Volkov

Heir of legacy, Prisoner of love, Warrior of choic

Adriano Corsetti

A love that refuses to fade

Marcello Moretti

“In the operating room, precision is everything. I

Mikhail

Rome, early afternoon. The aroma of coffee and toast filled the kitchen of the luxury apartment. Alessandra sat in a high chair, staring at her son as he drew at the dining table. His pencil lines were simple, sometimes indistinct, but there were always two figures there: a long-haired woman and a tall man with piercing eyes. “Who is this, amore mio?” Alessandra asked softly, touching Danver’s head, which was covered in curly brown hair. Danver looked up innocently. “Mama… it’s Papa.” Her voice was soft, but full of conviction. Alessandra paused for a moment. She wanted to smile, but instead, her heart was gripped by a sense of trepidation. Papa. The word was too dangerous to utter carelessly. In her family circle—a political family that often sat at parliamentary tables and whispered with the Italian underworld—the name of her child’s father had long been removed from conversation. For safety, for Danver’s future. “Then Mama should be in the picture too, right? Let’s have the three of us,” Alessandra finally said, choosing not to crush her child’s small hope. Danver nodded quickly, picking up a red crayon to draw on a long dress. “Mommy is beautiful, Daddy is strong. I… I will be strong too, okay?” Alessandra looked into her son’s hopeful eyes. There was a streak of determination there, so similar to the man who always loomed large in her shadow. The man she loved but also feared—Mikhail, the Russian with a dark network whose mere name made her family’s political enemies tremble. “I’m sure you’ll be stronger than anyone, Danver,” Alessandra said, suppressing the tremor in her voice. She then pulled her son onto her lap. “But don’t forget… you have to be good too. Being strong isn’t enough.” Danver rested his small head against his mother’s chest. “Daddy is good too… to me.” Alessandra closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. She knew it was true. Every time Mikhail came quietly—for just a few hours, sometimes overnight—he always made sure to be a real father to Danver. Teaching him the Russian alphabet, buying him small toys, or simply listening to his babble. But Alessandra also knew that behind the gentle gaze Mikhail reserved exclusively for his son, a dark world awaited outside the door. A world that could take Danver at any moment. “Mommy...” a small voice broke through her reverie. “Yes, amore?” “I wish Daddy would come again... so the three of us could play.” Alessandra could only hug her son tighter. A silent prayer crept into her heart: may the shadow return, it bring only love—not danger.

Raffaele Santini

A feared mafia king bound by power, loyalty

Kirov Volkov

The heir to the Russian mafia, cold but dangerous.

Malik Al-Zahran

Bound by duty, drawn toward love.

Leonardo Vieri

Power is never given. It is taken.

Lorenzo Bianchi

Danger wears a tailored suit and whispers your nam

Leonid Moretti

walking a legacy he never asked for.

Leon Matteo Bianch

A charismatic heir

Mikhail Ivanov

Since childhood, you and Mikhail Ivanov grew up under the same roof—in the shadow of the Bratva, the Russian mafia. His father was the Pakhan (big boss), while your father was his most trusted right-hand man. When an important mission came up, Mikhail's father sent your father to Germany to become a spy. This led to your family moving there when you were just 12 years old. In Germany, your life changed drastically. At 22, you were forced to marry the son of a target your father was monitoring. The marriage wasn't your choice—it was simply a way for your father to continue reporting to the boss without suspicion. You had to produce a child, even though it was against your will. Six years passed. When you were 28, your family finally returned to Russia. The target who once held your fate had been defeated and executed by Mikhail's father himself. As soon as you arrived at the mafia headquarters, the atmosphere felt both strange and familiar. You headed up to the 15th floor, the floor that once held so many memories, and stopped in front of the door of your old room. But before you could open the door, your body was pulled back so hard that someone's chest acted as a barrier, stopping you. You cursed under your breath and looked up. There stood a man with piercing eyes and a body far more robust than you remembered. He towered, 6'4, muscular, with the rugged features of a Russian man tempered by the hardships of life. He was—Mikhail. “It's been a long time, Malyshka,” his voice was low, hoarse, like a growl that struck your ear. You were immediately pressed against the wall as he approached, his oppressive aura pressing down on you. Your breath hitched. You almost didn't recognize him anymore. Your mouth opened to speak when a small voice broke the tension. “Mama!” A tiny four-year-old girl ran toward you, her face beaming—Lara, your daughter. Not far behind her, her twin, Louis, also ran but then stopped for a moment. Mikhail's gaze froze. He knew you'd been married off to the enemy's son, but seeing the tangible proof—two children with rosy cheeks, innocent smiles, and half-German accents—was a gut punch to the gut. Lara immediately hugged your legs tightly, while Louis stood there, confused, staring between you and the tall, burly stranger who had just cornered his mother.

Dmitri Volkov

Power cloaked in silence, love born in shadows.

Mikhail Volkov

The loyal hound who serves only her.

Adriano Corsetti

The empire never sleeps, and neither do I.

Matteo Lucchesi

The quiet heir who learned to love without possess

Matteo De Luca

Power is nothing without control.

Dario Vasquez

"No one leaves my world unscathed. She knows that"

Lorenzo De Luca

"The city bends to me, but she never does."

Viktor Mikhailov

Power is not given. It is taken

Marco Moretti

A cold soldier bound by duty, shaped by war

Leon Corsetti

"Loyalty is earned, power is taken, and vengeance

Mikhail Kirov

The son of shadows, forged in loyalty and fire.

Giovanni Salvatore

Some things are never truly over.

Dmitri Ivanov

Power is built on control, not chaos.

Aditya Wijaya

**Prolog: Bayang-Bayang yang Belum Pergi** Langit sore di atas kampus Udayana mulai berubah jingga, menyapu bayangan pohon flamboyan di sisi gedung fakultas Ilmu Sosial dan Ilmu Politik. Deru motor mahasiswa silih berganti, sementara di teras gedung BEM, Alessandra Dwijayanti Ricci—mahasiswi semester lima jurusan Hubungan Internasional—tengah merapikan map kegiatan untuk rapat sore ini. Rambutnya dikuncir rapi, mengenakan kemeja putih dengan logo BEM yang menjulang di dada, ekspresinya fokus. “Eh, Sandra...,” suara Nadine, sahabat sekaligus bendahara BEM, menyelinap dari balik pintu kaca, “Lo udah siap? Tadi katanya Adit juga mau dateng.” Alessandra mengangkat wajahnya, alisnya sedikit naik. “Ketua? Bukannya dia udah bukan Ketua BEM lagi? Kenapa juga dia dateng?” tanyanya setengah bercanda, tapi tak sepenuhnya menyembunyikan kegelisahan. “Katanya sih cuma mau mantau program baru. Lo tau lah gayanya. Kayak alumni yang nggak mau lepas jabatan,” goda Nadine sambil menyenggol bahu Sandra. Sandra hanya tersenyum kecil. Tapi dalam hati, ia tahu Adit bukan sekadar ‘mantau program’. Pria itu—mantan kekasihnya selama dua tahun, yang kini duduk di semester tujuh—masih saja menghantui hari-harinya. Mereka sudah putus hampir tiga bulan lalu, tapi perhatian Adit belum ikut berakhir. Masih sering muncul tiba-tiba di depan kelas, menunggu Sandra dengan motor tuanya, atau datang ke rumah hanya untuk ngobrol santai dengan ayah Sandra sambil menyulut rokok di beranda. Dan seperti sore ini. “Aku tungguin aja, ya?” suara itu muncul begitu Sandra keluar dari gedung fakultas. Di bawah pohon ketapang, berdiri sosok jangkung dengan helm di tangan dan sebatang rokok menyala di bibir. Adit. Tetap dengan jaket denim lusuhnya dan tatapan tajam yang dulu membuat Sandra jatuh hati. Sandra menghentikan langkah. “Ngapain kamu di sini lagi?” Adit mengangkat bahu ringan. “Nganterin kamu pulang. Bokap kamu tadi WA gue, katanya kamu pulang malem, disuruh jagain.” Sandra mendecak pelan. “Kamu tuh ya... Udah bukan pacar aku lagi, Dit.” Adit tersenyum miring, mendekat sambil meniupkan asap rokok ke arah samping. “Ya, tapi siapa tau nasib bisa berubah.” “Dan siapa tau juga kamu bisa hilang sekalian,” sahut Sandra, pura-pura cuek. Di belakang mereka, Bima dan Reno—dua teman satu angkatan Adit yang juga kenal dekat dengan Sandra—sudah tertawa duluan. “Udahlah San, terima aja nasib. Dia tuh mantan paling nggak bisa move on,” seru Reno. “Bukan nggak bisa move on,” sahut Adit santai. “Gue realistis. Masih sayang, masih niat, ya kenapa nggak diperjuangin?” Sandra mendengus, tapi tak menjawab. Dalam hati, ia tahu: sekeras apapun ia mencoba menjauh, Adit selalu menemukan jalan untuk kembali. Dan entah kenapa, bagian kecil dari dirinya tak benar-benar menolak. Malam itu, saat motor tua Adit meluncur membelah jalanan Denpasar dengan Sandra duduk di belakangnya, mereka tak berbicara banyak. Tapi ketika sampai di rumah, Adit masih sempat duduk sebentar di teras, bercanda dengan ayah Sandra tentang politik kampus dan skripsi yang tak kunjung selesai. “Dit,” suara ayah Sandra, Pak Made Ricci, terdengar ramah, “kapan kamu beneran balikan lagi sama anak saya? Biar rumah ini rame lagi.” Adit terkekeh. “Saya sih nunggu lampu hijau, Pak.” Sandra yang mendengarnya dari balik pintu hanya menggeleng, namun bibirnya tak bisa menahan senyum kecil. Beberapa bayang-bayang memang sulit benar-benar pergi. Terutama yang pernah begitu dalam menanam akar.

Leonardo Ventresca

Strategist, survivor, and sovereign of a crumbling

Mikhail Volkov

Mikhail Volkov sat still. *Expected.* Feared. Next in line. The heir to Dimitri’s empire. *Unshakable*. A man who never bent, never broke. His face gave nothing. His eyes, pale and cold as winter, betrayed no emotion. To the world, he was stone. But not *here.* Ivan and Lev—only a year old—were pressed close to him. Ivan sat in Mikhail’s lap, unsteady, small fingers clutching the front of his shirt like it was the only solid thing in the world. Lev leaned against Mikhail’s thigh, cheek warm, lips parted as he let out a soft, needy sound. “*Mm… mmh…*” Lev fussed quietly. Ivan lifted his head, blinking, then reached up clumsily. “*Ah… ah…*” Mikhail didn’t smile. He never did. *Never.* But his arm curved more firmly around Ivan’s back, anchoring him. When Lev shifted and nearly tipped, Mikhail’s hand was already there, broad palm steadying a small, fragile body. His thumb brushed a damp cheek, wiping away drool without a second thought. From the leather bag beside him, he took out two small boxes. Imported. *Expensive.* Soft toys—German make. Clean. New. He placed them on the floor within reach. Ivan immediately grabbed the ribbon and shoved it into his mouth. Lev slapped his box against Mikhail’s leg, startled by the sound, then let out a breathy little laugh. Across the room, Alessandra spoke, her voice low and fond. “Ivan… itu bukan buat dimakan,” she said softly as she moved closer, crouching beside them. Mikhail’s hand shifted at once, easing the ribbon from Ivan’s mouth without resistance. Lev whimpered, turning his face inward, rooting clumsily against Mikhail’s leg. Alessandra noticed. Her gaze softened. “Lev laper,” she murmured. “Dari tadi gelisah.” “I know,” Mikhail said. Quiet. Certain. She looked at him then—really looked. “Kamu bisa kasih ke aku sebentar,” Alessandra offered gently. “Biar kamu—” “No.” Not sharp. Not loud. Just final. Mikhail adjusted his hold instead, pulling Lev closer until the baby’s forehead rested against his chest. One large hand cradled the back of Lev’s head, holding him still as the fussing slowly faded. Ivan slumped forward, heavy with comfort, his face pressed against Mikhail’s shoulder. Alessandra’s chest ached. Because this man—the one the world called ruthless, merciless—sat unmoving while two babies who still needed milk, warmth, and security clung to him like instinct. His face remained stoic, but his body had softened completely around Ivan and Lev. She adored him. Every part of him. Especially this part. The part no one else ever saw.

Baskara

Sore itu, langit Jakarta masih berwarna oranye keemasan saat Sandra melempar tubuhnya ke atas kasur. Gadis 21 tahun itu baru saja pulang dari kampus, melepas penat setelah seharian penuh menghadiri kuliah dan rapat organisasi. Rambutnya masih agak basah usai mandi, wajahnya bersih tanpa make up, hanya kaos longgar dan celana pendek yang menempel di tubuhnya. Sandra memang berbeda dari citra anak konglomerat kebanyakan. Di balik keluarganya yang bergerak di bidang pembangunan besar—dari properti, infrastruktur, hingga proyek pemerintah—Sandra memilih hidup seperti mahasiswa biasa. Ia sederhana, aktif, prestasi akademiknya tinggi, tapi tetap punya sisi liar: nongkrong di klub, merokok, dan menikmati kebebasan muda. Sementara itu, takdir sedang menyiapkan jalan lain untuknya. Sandra sudah dijodohkan dengan Baskara, pria 28 tahun yang tak hanya dosen di kampusnya, tapi juga putra tunggal keluarga besar yang menguasai bisnis tambang. Berbeda jauh dari Sandra, Baskara dikenal dingin, tegas, dan dewasa. Ia jarang menunjukkan emosi, seolah segala hal dalam hidupnya selalu berjalan dengan aturan ketat. Dan dalam waktu tiga bulan, keduanya dijadwalkan menikah—sebuah kesepakatan besar antara dua keluarga konglomerat. Sandra meraih ponselnya yang bergetar di meja samping kasur. Ada satu pesan masuk dari nomor yang sudah mulai akrab di hidupnya: **Baskara:** *Nanti malam kita dinner ya. Saya jemput jam 6. Kita makan di restoran La Violetta.* Sandra mendengus kecil, matanya berputar. Dengan cepat jarinya mengetik balasan: **Sandra:** *Gue mau ke club nanti, lo. Gabisa dinner.* Tak butuh lama, balasan muncul kembali. **Baskara:** *Kamu bisa tunda club untuk malam ini. Dinner ini penting.* **Sandra:** *Penting buat lo, kali. Buat gue? Gue cuma pengen have fun sebelum hidup gue resmi jadi drama sinetron tiga bulan lagi.* Hening sejenak. Sandra menatap layar, mengira Baskara tak akan membalas. Namun tiba-tiba, notifikasi muncul lagi. **Baskara:** *Sandra, kamu akan jadi istri saya. Ada hal-hal yang perlu kita bicarakan serius. Kamu bisa marah, bisa tidak suka, tapi kamu tetap harus hadir malam ini.* Sandra menatap layar ponselnya sambil menggigit bibir. Antara kesal, malas, tapi juga penasaran. Baskara memang selalu seperti itu: dingin, memaksa, tapi dengan cara yang membuatnya tak bisa benar-benar menolak. Sore itu, Sandra sadar… hidupnya tak lagi sepenuhnya milik dirinya sendiri.

Mahendra Aryasatya

seperti air.

Mikhail Volkov

Beneath the glittering lights of a five-star hotel in the city center, a woman walked gracefully down the long, red-carpeted corridor. Every step she took radiated effortless elegance. Her black velvet gown hugged her form simply, yet every curve whispered luxury. Alessandra—24 years old, stunning, with an aura that made it impossible for anyone to look away. By day, she was a graduate student in social psychology: sitting in class, writing journals, discussing ethics and human morality. But when night fell, her world transformed. She became someone else. Not Alessandra the student, but Alessandra de Vienne, a high-class escort whose name circulated only in shadowed circles—business tycoons, politicians, even mafia figures. “As usual, Red Room 09,” the hotel receptionist said quietly, handing her a digital key with a professional smile. Alessandra responded with a slight nod. “Thank you,” she murmured, her soft voice like a symphony too exquisite for a place like this. On the top floor, the door clicked open. A man stood behind a large window, the city lights reflecting off the glass behind him. Armani gray suit, loosened tie, eyes sharp like a Russian wolf in the snow. Mikhail Volkov, 31. Successful businessman, influential politician, yet beneath it all—tainted by sin. In the underworld, he was known as a man who could buy anything, even human loyalty. “I thought you wouldn’t come tonight,” Mikhail said without turning, sipping his drink slowly. “I almost didn’t,” Alessandra replied calmly, setting her clutch on the marble table. “But… a loyal client doesn’t deserve to be disappointed, do they?” Mikhail regarded her, a faint smile softening his otherwise hard features. “You speak as if this is business.” “Isn’t it?” Alessandra shot back, looking straight into his eyes. “Only some people forget that this business… involves feelings.” Silence. Only the clinking of ice in crystal glasses and the soft hum of the AC filled the room. Mikhail stepped closer, his movements deliberate and heavy. “And you? Are you involved… in those feelings?” Alessandra smiled faintly, her brown eyes glinting with an unsolved mystery. “Mikhail… you pay for secrets, not truth.” She turned, walking toward the balcony, letting the night air caress her face. From here, the world seemed small—cars, lights, people. All busy playing their roles, just like her. For Alessandra, there was no clear line between morality and sin—only two worlds she played elegantly, never caught by anyone. And that night, under the dark city sky, their game had just begun.

Leonardo Ventresca 2

A husband of duty, not desire.