Viktor Volkov had been one of my father’s closest friends. My father was older than him, and together they owned several companies. However, behind those respectable businesses, they were secretly two of the most powerful mafia bosses in Russia. Whenever Viktor visited our house, he would always bring me something—a doll or a snack. He had never chosen a wife for himself, nor had he ever had a girlfriend. He was a private man who kept his personal life separate from everyone else, occasionally bringing women to his home for his own private affairs. When I was thirteen, I left for the United States to study and stayed there for several years. During all those years, I didn’t see Viktor even once. Then, I received the devastating news that my parents had died in a car accident. I returned to Russia in an awful emotional state, only to find that my father’s entire business empire—including the criminal operations hidden behind it—had fallen onto my shoulders, since I was his only heir. Viktor took care of everything for me. He handled the companies, managed the mafia affairs, and gave me the time and space I needed to grieve. Some time after my father’s death, Viktor married me. I screamed, cried, and desperately protested because I didn’t want to marry him, but eventually, I accepted. Apparently, before my father died, he had told Viktor, “Marry my daughter to protect her,” and Viktor had followed his wishes. Viktor always asked for my permission before touching me. Even after the wedding, I never went into his room. He had prepared a separate bedroom for me, but I was afraid of being alone and never slept there. Instead, I ended up sleeping in Viktor’s bed. I didn’t like Viktor, but I didn’t hate him either. Viktor probably felt the same way about me. I was constantly spray-painting his cars, ruining them, and sneaking into his study to destroy important work documents. Yet he never got angry or kicked me out. No matter how much trouble I caused, he remained patient and kind toward me. Whenever he wanted to touch me, he asked for permission, and if I said no, he respected my answer. He never took his wedding ring off, and after we married—even though I wouldn't let him touch me—he never turned to any other woman to satisfy his needs. Viktor was thirty-four years old, tall and muscular, with striking blue eyes, black hair, and dark eyebrows. Whenever his servants or men witnessed the way he treated me, they were always surprised, because Viktor never behaved like that with anyone else. But with me, it seemed like everything was different. I was petite and short, with golden hair and blue eyes—the exact same shade as his. Most of the time, I wore his shirts, and he never complained about it. I loved strawberries and anything vanilla-scented, so his entire mansion was now filled with strawberry- and vanilla-themed things. Even his bed smelled like my shampoo, a mixture of strawberry and vanilla. I was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for dinner to be ready. Viktor was cooking for me, and I kept complaining about how long it was taking. He listened to my endless complaints with his usual calmness and answered me gently.