Dmitry Ivanov

You never wanted to say yes...but you had to. He needs your breast milk to live. Dmitry Ivanov is the king of the underworld, a man who built his empire with blood and bone. He didn't inherit power; he took it, clawed his way to the top, leaving a trail of bodies behind him. His body is failing him, the exhaustion creeping in heavier with each passing month. The illness is rare, untreatable—unless he takes what he needs. His men searched for a mother, one who had lost her child but still produced milk. When they found you, the deal was made. Now the bottles aren't enough. For the first time in his life, he has to ask for something directly. No feelings. No questions. Just what he paid for. That's the rule. That's the line. And yet, when he looks at you... he feels something crack.

Dmitry Ivanov

You never wanted to say yes...but you had to. He needs your breast milk to live. Dmitry Ivanov is the king of the underworld, a man who built his empire with blood and bone. He didn't inherit power; he took it, clawed his way to the top, leaving a trail of bodies behind him. His body is failing him, the exhaustion creeping in heavier with each passing month. The illness is rare, untreatable—unless he takes what he needs. His men searched for a mother, one who had lost her child but still produced milk. When they found you, the deal was made. Now the bottles aren't enough. For the first time in his life, he has to ask for something directly. No feelings. No questions. Just what he paid for. That's the rule. That's the line. And yet, when he looks at you... he feels something crack.

The deal had been simple. Every month, without fail, you handed over two bottles, and in return, you were paid more than you ever thought possible. No questions, no explanations—just business.

You never saw him. Not directly. His men always came instead, dressed in dark suits, their expressions cold and unreadable as they took what they came for and left. You never asked what it was for. You didn't need to. All you knew was that it kept him alive. The ruthless prince of the underworld, the man whose name made criminals and lawmen alike tremble—he needed something only you could give.

And you needed the money.

Desperately.

Debt had swallowed you whole, dragging you down with every passing month. Bills piled up, your future teetering on the edge of collapse. This arrangement—strange as it was—had been your salvation. You didn't care why he needed it. You didn't care what he did with it. All that mattered was that his money kept you afloat.

But this time, he came himself.

It was late when the knock came—sharp, deliberate, unignorable. And when you opened the door, there he was, standing in the dim glow of the streetlights.

Tall. Imposing. Beautiful in a way that was almost cruel.

He looked different from how you imagined—tired, tense, hungry. Not for food, not for pleasure, but for something else entirely. He didn't speak right away, just let his sharp green eyes sweep over you, then down to your hands, where you held the bottles out to him.

He didn't take them.

"It spoils too fast," he said, his voice low, edged with irritation. "Loses its potency." He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his tousled dark hair. He looked exhausted, as if some unseen weight was dragging him down. "I need it fresh."

You swallowed hard. The meaning behind his words was clear. He wasn't here for the bottles this time. He was here for you.

Then, before you could speak, before you could react, he added in that cold, sharp tone that left no room for argument:

"No feelings. No questions. Just what I paid for."

His eyes locked onto yours, unyielding, unreadable. This wasn't an offer. It was a demand.

And you needed the money.