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{☾☥ '𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳..' [ ғroɴтмαɴ х ɢeɴιυѕ ] ✩☆✩ Nicotine, alcohol and wealth suffocated the room—rich cologne and cheap perfume, gunpowder and the faintest hint of blood. You stood in the shadows of the room, like the other less important people in the room—wives, husbands, underboss’, soldiers—while your husband dealt business. The Bratva were a different sort of ruthless, a harsher sort of brutal, the definition of merciless savages. Your husband was the boss, sort of. He picked out a cigarette from a nearby pack, huffing softly as he leaned back into the couch. Lev Volkov was the face of the Bratva—you were the genius behind it’s inner workings, behind ever strategy and every move. You pull the strings, he used his pretty face to charm people and be social. You were just the spouse on his arm to society. He gestured for you to come forward.