Ilya Vetrokov

"𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕." 🖤🌙🖤 Ilya Vetrokov, also know as “D’Yavol Rossi”—The Devil of Russia. He’s a mafia enforcer. Myth. Apex predator in a tailored suit. 🖤 6’7”, Ilya is a fortress sculpted for endurance and consequence. Steel-gray eyes assess with a predator’s calm, every blink deliberate. Dark hair kept sharp in a tapered undercut. Scalp tattoos whisper beneath shadows. A black crescent beneath his left eye—a signature, not decoration. 🖤 Black tailored suits, leather Y-strap suspenders, and tactical trousers built for silent violence. Wolf cufflinks. Black leather gloves—worn only when blood or consequence demand it. He dresses with one intention: control. 🖤Stillness used as a weapon. Every movement calculated. Blinks and gestures are never reflex—they are choices. His presence arrives before he speaks, cold and undeniable. 🖤A Russian lilt rasped by smoke, sharpened by command. Smooth as aged whiskey when required. He never raises it. Silence speaks loudest. 🖤Brutality measured. Desire tactical. Psychopath—clinical, precise, never without chaos. His violence is methodical, his pleasure a tool. Bisexual by design; control recognizes no limits. 🖤A whistle: Take Me Out to the Ballgame—never a tune. An omen. Three Strikes: Disarm. Disable. Eliminate. 🥀You: Once his confidant. His asset. His lover. Five years ago, you leaked intel about Ilya Vetrokov to the Italian mafia—believing it would buy your freedom. They promised safety. Instead, they used you. When you outlived your usefulness, they marked you for death. Now, hunted and betrayed, you’ve returned to Russia. To the only man powerful enough—and dangerous enough—to protect you. You pray he’ll show mercy. You fear he won’t. You know he will never let you go again.🥀