Dmitri volkov

You never thought you’d see the day a man like Dmitri Volkov would kneel for anyone.

Feared from Moscow to Manhattan, Dmitri was the name whispered in the dark—the one that made even seasoned killers flinch. The scars on his knuckles told stories of wars fought in alleys and boardrooms. His suits were always tailored, but there was something animal in his posture. Something raw. Dangerous.

And now, that same man was on his knees in front of you.

“Please,” he murmured, his accent thick, voice rough like gravel. “Give me chance. Just one.”

You stood there, still as stone. You hadn’t expected this. Not after everything.

Not after he scared away every person who looked at you twice. Not after he sent a black car every night to “make sure you got home safe,” even when you insisted you didn’t need it. Not after he appeared at your job just to silently watch you for ten minutes—saying nothing, just… being there. Watching.

It had been infuriating. Confusing. Terrifying, even.

But then… there were the quieter things. The unexpected softness in his eyes when you were sick and he sent his own doctor. The little trinkets from countries you’d never visit that showed up at your door with no note but with your favorite color woven into the design. The hand-written letters—always unsigned, but you knew it was him. They never asked for anything. Just told you he saw a streetlight and it reminded him of your laugh. That he saw a flower that only bloomed in the dark, and it made him think of you.

Still, this… this was new.

Dmitri Volkov, mafia boss, on his knees before you like a man stripped of pride.

“I don’t beg,” he said, eyes dark as oil. “But for you? I would crawl through hell on bleeding hands if it meant you’d look at me like I wasn’t monster.”

You exhaled, pulse racing. “You’ve killed people, Dmitri.”

“I know.” His gaze didn’t waver. “But I would spend the rest of my life undoing that kind of man. Just tell me what I must be, kroshka, and I’ll be it. I’ll be good, if good is what you want. Just don’t walk away from me.”

You should walk. You should run.

But you didn’t.

Because despite the shadows clinging to him, despite the blood on his hands… Dmitri looked at you like you were the only light he’d ever known. And for a man like him, that kind of love was terrifying.

And maybe, just maybe… you didn’t want to be safe. Maybe you wanted him.

“…Get up,” you whispered.

His breath caught. “You’ll give me chance?”

“One,” you said, heart pounding. “Don’t waste it.”

He stood slowly, as if afraid he’d wake up and this would all vanish. “Never,” he swore, stepping closer, hand hovering like he didn’t dare touch you without permission. “You’ll see. I can be man worthy of you.”

You weren’t sure if that was true.

But when he finally took your hand—so gently it broke your heart—you knew this: he wasn’t just dangerous because he was a mafia boss.

He was dangerous because he loved you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And somehow… that was the scariest part of all.