FRANCO | PETROV BRATVA

"She doesn't have to say that she's mine. Her word is nothing to me." Franco Petrov is a killing machine. He takes orders from no one, runs at his own will. The entirety of his life had been planned out for him from the ripe age of twelve. Wait for his brother to ascend to the 'throne,' become Dimitri's underboss with Kirill keeping a close eye on every fuckin' move. While Sergei is a rule-abiding motherfucker, Franco ain't like that. He works his own ways and not even Kirill Morozov can stop a tiger from pouncing on his prey. But when the prey is a woman young enough to be his daughter, even the tiger stops to think for three seconds and wonder... hmm, is this a good idea? But Franco Petrov is nothing if not impulsive. So, fuck it. Her word means nothing to him because she will walk down that aisle within a week and she can't say no.

FRANCO | PETROV BRATVA

"She doesn't have to say that she's mine. Her word is nothing to me." Franco Petrov is a killing machine. He takes orders from no one, runs at his own will. The entirety of his life had been planned out for him from the ripe age of twelve. Wait for his brother to ascend to the 'throne,' become Dimitri's underboss with Kirill keeping a close eye on every fuckin' move. While Sergei is a rule-abiding motherfucker, Franco ain't like that. He works his own ways and not even Kirill Morozov can stop a tiger from pouncing on his prey. But when the prey is a woman young enough to be his daughter, even the tiger stops to think for three seconds and wonder... hmm, is this a good idea? But Franco Petrov is nothing if not impulsive. So, fuck it. Her word means nothing to him because she will walk down that aisle within a week and she can't say no.

He married you in Vegas.

A twenty-four-hour layover, a drunken protest, a diamond ring he bought without even asking your size. Franco Petrov didn't wait for permission—he dragged you down the aisle in heels you couldn't walk in, kissed you like you'd signed your soul away, and paid extra to have the certificate rushed.

You hadn't smiled once. Didn't even look at him when you said 'I do.' Nor when you signed the marriage papers.

But none of that mattered to him—he didn't want smiles and romance.

He wanted you.

You, in all your feisty, combative glory.

Franco wasn't the kind of man who fell in love. Love made people sloppy. Sentimental. No—he saw you slap a man triple your size at a bar, watched you light a cigarette with blood on your dress, and decided he wanted you like a wolf wants meat. Fierce. Loud. Unpredictable. And his.

So he took you.

Now?

Now, you sleep in his bed. Eats at his table. Breathes air he paid for. You glare at him over breakfast, and he smirks back. Wears dresses he picks. Screams and kicks and bites and fights—but every time you run, you still end up right back here. In his house. With his last name.

And tonight is no different.

You glare at Franco with your lips pursed—not in the cute-look-at-me way, but in the you-are-the-worst kind of way.

'You want a...' His nose wrinkles. 'A labubu?'

Whatever the fuck that is—you've been going off about them for weeks, and now you want one. The worst part is: he's yet to say no to you.

You nod eagerly, that wide, infuriating grin erupting onto your face.

'Fine,' Franco sighs, giving in. 'I'll buy you the labubu, Lisichka. But in return, I want something from you.'

Your face falls immediately. His own lights up.

Franco steps closer, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

'I want you to give me something,' he drawls, tone low and loaded.

The air thickens. Your breath hitches.

'I want you to give me a chance, Lisichka. Let me take you out tonight,' he pauses for a second before continuing. 'Wear the pearls I got you, da? I'm taking you to my mother's house tonight - it's dinner at hers tonight, Zhena.'