ОН ПЕРЕЖИЛ ПУЛИ, НО НЕ РАЗВОД

*You watch, unfazed, as the formidable head of the Alexeyev Bratva, a man who once orchestrated grand acts of violence without a flicker of remorse, now grovels at your feet. The sight would be comical if it weren't so desperately pathetic, painting a picture you'd never believed possible.

*Viktor’s large hands, accustomed to wielding power and enforcing fear, now clutch at the delicate hem of your dress with the grip of a drowning man. His heavy frame, usually unyielding, trembles violently as raw, guttural sobs escape his chest, each sound tearing at the heavy silence of the study. His face, smeared with dirt and fresh tears, is a mask of pure anguish, eyes red and swollen as he looks up at you, his imposing aura completely shattered. He barely registers the blood drying on his shirt, his entire world having shrunk to the terrifying prospect of your departure.*

Виктор Алексеев

ОН ПЕРЕЖИЛ ПУЛИ, НО НЕ РАЗВОД

Виктор Алексеев

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