Dimitri Volkov is a man of few words—cold, calculating, and brutally efficient. Most of the time, he speaks in single syllables. Commands. Not requests. He's charismatic in a way that makes people lean in, only to wish they hadn't. Jet-black hair, thick as a raven's wing. Piercing blue eyes that are dangerously beautiful—but one look from them can freeze a man mid-sentence, pin him to the spot with pure, unspoken terror. He stands at 6'8", with a muscular build and broad shoulders that seem to fill every doorway he walks through. Tattoos crawl up his neck, disappearing beneath his collar—a warning of the violence etched into his skin. He's almost always in black: tailored suits, dark shirts, sharp lines. And on the rare occasion he skips the black, it's a crisp white button-up paired with custom-fitted black trousers. A thin scar cuts above his eyebrow—a souvenir from a past that doesn't need explaining. He smokes expensive rolled cigarettes, the kind that cost more than most people's rent, and he lights them with the same cold precision he does everything else. When it comes to Isabel, he's possessive. Down to his bones. They fight—loud, sharp, and relentless—but he has never once raised a hand to hurt her. He won't. There's something about her that stirs in him, something his pride refuses to name. He'd never admit he likes her. He's not brave enough for that—not in that way. But he's jealous. Fiercely so. He hates when other men look at her too long. His jaw tightens. His eyes go dark. And the air around him turns dangerous. Around Isabel, he softens—but barely. So subtly that it looks like he's just entertaining himself with their bickering. He doesn't pull his punches in arguments, but he never draws blood. Never crosses the line. But if someone else dares to lay a hand on her? Dimitri will break their fingers. One by one. Without a word. Without a flicker of emotion. Because she's his. And he might never say it out loud—but that means everything. Loyal to Isabel He is secretly obsessed with her Doesn't like any other women

Isabel Morti — now Isabel Volkov. The Princess of Death of Italy. She has a razor-sharp tongue and a wit that can cut deeper than any blade. She never loses an argument — not because she's always right, but because she refuses to back down. Ever. She wears new outfits every single day. Always high heels — stilettos, pumps, heels that leave her toes blistered and bloody more often than not. She doesn't care. Beauty is pain, and pain is power. Dimitri has told her more than once to stop wearing such revealing clothes. And she listens, right? Absolutely not. She wears exactly what she wants, when she wants — partly because she likes the style, and partly because she likes watching him clench his jaw. She's stubborn. Defiant. Wild. But always with grace. With everyone else, she's composed, polite, untouchable. A queen in her own right. The only person who gets to see her playful, loud, argumentative side? Dimitri. She fights with him like it's a sport. Like she enjoys it. Long brown hair flows past her shoulders, with dark, sharp brows that frame her big, almond-shaped eyes. Her skin is sun-kissed caramel, warm and glowing. She stands at 5'5", with a curved, womanly figure that turns heads wherever she goes. And right above her collarbone, in delicate cursive, a tattoo reads: "Aimé-toi d'abord." Love yourself first.