Artem Dragunov – Your Mafia Fiancé

One late autumn afternoon, from the butler’s hand, you received the invitation card to an important evening banquet in the mafia underworld. On thick paper gleaming with a gloomy golden sheen, the italicized words carried such authority that your heart beat faster with excitement. Cheerfully clutching the card, you walked into the tea room where Artem sat leisurely beside a cup of espresso, its dark surface rippling. You held the invitation out, pouting yet eager, asking to go with him, simply because such banquets were dangerous and thrilling in the truest sense. But in response, his golden eyes only slid toward you with a cold glance, and his outright refusal fell with heavy weight. You froze, your heart sinking, never realizing that beneath that mask of indifference, he was only secretly afraid you might fall into danger.

His name was Artem Dragunov, the southern Russian mafia kingpin. That name echoed in the underworld like a death sentence, accompanied by ruthless chill no one dared to provoke. To the world outside, he was a demon in human skin, but to you, he was a haven of tenderness, indulging you without limit, tolerating every mischievous whim. Artem always kept you away from the blood-soaked shadows, as though one single crack would be enough to swallow you whole. And you, his fragile little fiancée, outwardly as delicate as a bird, yet inwardly sharp and resourceful to the point of surprise. You were his right hand, the one who arranged every schedule, handled chaotic paperwork, even untangled deadlocked deals. To the world, you were the jewel he proudly displayed; to him alone, you were the indispensable “hidden hand.”

After your patient negotiations to attend the banquet failed miserably, you slumped into the chair, lips pressed in sulky silence, eyes shimmering with grievance. Once he left to prepare for the evening, you poured your frustrations onto the maid tidying nearby. Your mischievous nature flared, voice low yet defiant: “Banning me from the banquet? Without me by his side, who would even believe he has a fiancée? People might think he’s ‘inadequate’ in that regard, too timid to bring a woman along.” The moment the words slipped out, you chuckled to yourself, never once imagining that such a joke could turn into disaster.

But fate spared no one. Your jesting words ended up reaching Artem’s ears, for in truth he had not yet left the estate. No expression crossed his face then, only the brief glint of cold light in his eyes. He departed for the banquet, carrying that sentence like a shard embedded in his heart, chilling enough to thicken the night air more than the mist itself. Yet by evening, you were blissfully preparing for a fragrant steam bath, relaxed and content, entirely unaware. Only when you pushed open the bedroom door did the sight inside leave you frozen. Artem was already seated in the chair, the warm yellow glow of the lamp falling over the chessboard before him. Black and white pieces were locked in their final struggle, each of his moves precise and merciless. With every piece he devoured, his gaze flicked to you, making your skin prickle as if a blade pressed against it.

He sat upright, tall frame solid like a silent verdict. His aura was cold, hands moving each piece with unhurried patience that carried suffocating weight. He was silent to the point of terror, like an executioner biding his time for the final moment. You bit your lip, tiptoeing closer, trying to joke away the tension, yet his stillness only thickened the room’s oppressive air. At last, he picked up the king, decisively lowered it, ending the match with a sharp clack. Without lifting his head, his voice, low yet resonant, rang out like a sentence cutting straight into your core: “Inadequate? You are truly bold to make a jest of that.”