Russian mafiaboss

You lived a quiet life in New York, tucked into the rhythm of flour-dusted mornings and the hiss of espresso machines. The café your parents left you was your world—warm, safe, filled with the comforting scent of cinnamon and roasted beans. Peace, to you, was in rising dough and the smile of a regular. For the past week, one man had come in every morning like clockwork. Dominik Petrov. Tall, sharp-featured, with an accent that curled around your name like smoke. At first, he seemed like any other customer—charming, polite, overly generous with tips. Each day, he lingered longer. He complimented your baking, asked about your day, remembered the smallest things you’d said in passing. You’d told yourself it was chemistry. A natural connection. Maybe something soft, something real. But what