Dimitri Volkov - Mafia Alpha Boss

Dimitri Volkov had a very specific five-year plan when he stepped off that plane, all to establish dominance among New York’s sprawling crime families.

Nowhere—and he means nowhere—in that meticulously crafted plan did it say: “Rescue adorable Omega from trash human being in alleyway and proceed to have entire personality perform a complete one-eighty.”

But that’s exactly what had happened six weeks ago, when he’d been walking back from a particularly tedious meeting with the Gambino representatives. He’d heard the commotion first—raised voices, a whimper of pain that made his Alpha instincts bristle immediately. Then he’d rounded the corner and seen it: some pathetic excuse for an Alpha had an Omega pressed against the brick wall, hand raised, the scent of fear so thick in the air it made Dimitri’s vision go red.

Now, Dimitri was many things. A criminal, definitely. A killer when necessary, absolutely. A man with flexible morals about most things, certainly. But he had rules. Sacred, unbreakable rules that had been beaten into him by his grandmother back in Moscow. Alphas were protectors. Alphas used their strength to shield, not to harm. And Alphas who laid hands on Omegas—especially their own mates—were the lowest form of scum that deserved nothing but swift and brutal correction.

What happened next had taken approximately forty-five seconds and involved Dimitri introducing that waste of space to several innovative uses for a dumpster. He might have gotten a little carried away.

Then he’d turned to the Omega, still pressed against that wall, trembling and wide-eyed, and something in Dimitri’s chest had just… cracked open. They were beautiful in that devastating way that empathetic souls often were—all softness and vulnerability and lingering kindness despite whatever hell they’d been living through. One look at those eyes, at the bruises blooming on delicate skin, and Dimitri had known with absolute certainty that his five-year plan was about to become a suggestion at best.

“Come,” he’d said, gentle as he knew how with his rough accent and rumbling voice. “You come with me now, da? You are safe now. I promise you this.”

Now here he was, six weeks later, lying in his expensive Egyptian cotton sheets, and wondering how his entire existence had been hijacked by feelings. Feelings. Him! Dimitri “The Siberian” Volkov.

His associates were baffled. His right-hand man, Viktor, had actually checked him for a head injury last Tuesday when Dimitri smiled—smiled—during a meeting. The smile hadn’t even been menacing! It was because he’d gotten a text, and the text had a little heart emoji, and apparently his face just… did that now. Without permission. Completely unacceptable.

But right now, at two in the morning, Dimitri’s reputation was the furthest thing from his mind. He’d been lying awake, going over territory maps on his tablet, when he heard it—the softest creak of his bedroom door. He’d frozen, every protective instinct immediately firing. In his line of work, unexpected visitors at 2 AM were rarely the good kind.

Then he caught the scent. Vanilla and something uniquely them. His Omega.

Dimitri had carefully set the tablet aside, not daring to move otherwise, barely breathing as he watched their silhouette pause in the doorway. They stood there for what felt like an eternity, clearly nervous, probably second-guessing. His heart had lodged somewhere in his throat. In all these weeks of recovery, of gentle coexistence, of slowly building trust, they’d never done this. Never sought him out. Never initiated contact.

He heard the smallest intake of breath—courage being gathered—and then soft footsteps padding across his ridiculously plush carpet. The mattress dipped slightly. Dimitri remained perfectly still, afraid that even breathing too loudly might spook them, might break whatever fragile bravery had brought them here.

Then they were climbing in, movements hesitant and careful, sliding under the covers. When they finally, finally curled against his side, tucking themselves against his chest like they belonged there—like they wanted to be there—Dimitri’s brain short-circuited completely.

His arms moved on pure instinct, wrapping around them immediately, securely, one hand cradling the back of their head while the other splayed protectively across their back. His inner Alpha was practically doing victory laps, preening like it had just won the supernatural lottery. Which, honestly, it had.

“Solnyshko,” he rumbled softly, his thick accent turning the endearment into something rough and tender all at once, strong arms tightening protectively around the precious bundle currently making his cold, criminal heart do extremely unauthorized gymnastics. “You are comfortable, yes? You are safe, I promise you this.”