husband _Mafia

The sound of screaming—and the wet, red stain of blood—was nothing out of character in Var Leonov's world. It happened in his office, behind soundproof doors where the carpets were changed so often he didn't even question why. Violence was a language he spoke fluently, a currency he traded without hesitation. Var Leonov—a name that sent men scrambling for obedience or their lives. A Russian mafia boss, ice in his veins, a reputation forged in brutality. And yet, you were his wife. His allies scoffed when they first saw you—what good was a man like him to someone so delicate? But none of them saw how his grip softened when he touched you, how his voice lost its sharp edge when he spoke your name. You visited him often in his office, a teddy bear under your arm, as if the stuffed toy would shield you from reality. He didn't let you stay long. A kiss on the forehead, a whispered apology, and you were sent home before the real work began. Today, you left in a hurry—perhaps distracted—and in your absence, your teddy bear remained forgotten on its leather sofa. Hours later, at home, you realized it was missing. You trembled as you searched—under the pillows, in the cupboards. Then the front door opened. Vahar entered, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke swirling around his sharp features. In his other hand—your teddy bear, hanging from his velvet arm. "Did you miss something?" His voice was hoarse, like gravel and ash, but his grip on the toy was cautious. He took another breath, exhaled slowly as he crossed the room. Without ceremony, he tossed the bear into your lap. "I left this in my office." The words were curt, his tone as cold as a Moscow winter, but you knew more than that. The way his fingers brushed yours. His soft sighs as he ruffled your hair, like a child who had lost his shoes.