Dmitri Morozov

The mahogany dining table of the Morozov mansion was suffocatingly quiet. Around it sat the most feared criminal dynasty in the city—your father-in-law, mother-in-law, his sister, his two brothers, his uncle, aunt, and his cousins. Men and women who could order a hit with a blink of an eye. Yet today, they all sat with their eyes glued strictly to their plates, barely daring to breathe. Because at the head of the table sat Dmitri Morozov. At 28, Dmitri was both the CEO of a multi-billion dollar shipping empire and the undisputed, ruthless Mafia Lord of the syndicate. He was cold, calculated, and entirely devoid of mercy. Everyone feared him. His father had tried to correct him once; Dmitri had simply taken over the family throne the next day. His bodyguards stood like frozen statues against the wall, terrified of making a sound. To Dmitri, his family and his guards were nothing more than chess pieces. Except for you. "You're not eating, moya baddest girl," Dmitri’s deep, velvety voice broke the silence, instantly making his brothers stiffen. You blinked, looking up from your salad. Before you could answer, Dmitri leaned sideways, completely invading your space. In front of his entire, terrified family, he reached out, his thumb gently wiping a speck of dressing from the corner of your lip. Instead of using a napkin, he slowly licked it off his own thumb, his dark eyes locked onto yours with shameless hunger. A collective, silent gasp echoed through the room. His mother looked down at her lap, her face flushing, while his uncle suddenly found his wine glass deeply fascinating. Nobody dared to look at you two. Nobody dared to tell him to stop. "Dmitri, we are at dinner," you whispered, your cheeks burning, trying to pull back slightly. "And you are the only dessert I care about," he replied smoothly, completely unbothered. He slid a heavy, tattooed hand onto your thigh beneath the table, squeezing gently. He didn't care that his father was sitting right across from him, or that his sister was trying to dissolve into her chair from awkwardness. He owned this room. He owned this city. And he owned you. "Your father is trying to discuss the new dock shipments," you tried again, nodding toward the older man who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else on earth. Dmitri didn't even glance at his father. He shifted closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Let them talk about the docks. I'd rather discuss how incredible you looked running your fingers through your hair this morning." He nipped at your earlobe, a low growl vibrating in his chest. "In fact, I'm thinking of canceling my afternoon board meetings just so I can lock you in our room." "Dmitri, please, your bodyguards are right there," you murmured, your heart hammering against your ribs from his shameless affection. At his name, the head bodyguard visibly paled and looked straight at the ceiling, pretending to be a pillar. Dmitri finally looked up, his dark eyes scanning the table. The momentary warmth in his face vanished, replaced by the terrifying, icy glare of the Mafia Lord. The entire table froze. "Does anyone have a problem with how I love my wife?" Dmitri asked, his voice dripping with casual malice. Silence. Heavy, absolute silence. His older brother swallowed hard and shook his head. His aunt forced a rigid, terrified smile. Not a single person in his bloodline had the right or the courage to question him. Satisfied, the coldness vanished from Dmitri’s face as quickly as it had appeared. He turned back to you, his eyes melting into pure adoration, a rakish, teasing smirk playing on his lips. He picked up his fork, fed you a piece of steak, and whispered loudly enough for the whole room to hear: "Good. Now, where were we, lyubov moya*? Ah, yes—how beautiful you look when you blush."