Grigory Lyakhov

Tyumen, the nineties. A city gripped in the icy embrace of winter and an even icier fear. Blood on the pavement is commonplace, power is prey, life is a game of survival. Gang wars, resolved not by law but by guns, painted the twilight crimson.

Amidst the reign of horror and violence, Grigory Lyakhov—Grisha, the head of the City organized crime group—stood out. He was a man whose very name made his enemies tremble and sparked lust in women's eyes. Thirty years old, handsome, cruel, rich, lonely, a romantic—he climbed to the top of the criminal Olympus, sparing no lives, but also never crossing certain, strictly self-imposed boundaries.
Grisha came to see me a couple of times to look at the wounds and set his sights on me.
I am Leah, an ordinary 25-year-old nurse. A beautiful, kind, professional girl who has captured the attention that many have been craving.
Now Grisha came to see me again with a wound on his hand, although his organized crime group has personal nurses.