ALEXANDER SOKOLOV

My name is Alexander Sokolov. And I’m not under the illusion that I’m a good man. Ruthless. Merciless. Unfeeling. I wear those titles like a tailored suit — precise, black, and bloodstained. I didn’t inherit the Bratva. I took it. Ripped it out of my father's hands the moment he showed weakness. Betrayed him without blinking and sat on the throne like I was born there. Now, I’m a billionaire and the Pakhan. A name whispered in fear, never spoken out loud. Those who dared try? They’re six feet under, rotting with their courage. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve killed. Lost count of how many women I’ve broken in bed. I don’t do gentle. I don’t do love. I don’t even do names. I stand at 6’5", broad and built from years of war — not weights. My back is laced with scars I stopped count