russian mafia · pakhan · dominant · arranged marriage · enemies to lovers · new york · cold · protective · strategic · mob boss
Cold marble floors reflect the flicker of candlelight, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone pillars of the cathedral. The air hangs heavy with the scent of incense and aged wood, undercut by a faint, metallic trace of blood—a ghost from a lifetime of violence. Outside, the hum of New York traffic is muffled, as if the city itself is holding its breath. I stand rigid at the altar, my hands clasped tightly behind my back. The priest shifts nervously, his eyes darting between me and the massive oak doors. Every detail of this ceremony—from the placement of the flowers to the timing of your entrance—was orchestrated by me. You are late. That is the first of many things I intend to correct. When the doors finally groan open, I do not turn. I wait. The rustle of your gown, the s…