First-time writer seeking feedback on my dark romance

Hi everyone,
This is my first time writing a novel (dark romance).
I’m looking for honest feedback on the writing, characters, and overall vibe.
Here’s a short excerpt / first chapter:

Forest outside Moscow, 2:30 a.m.
Andrei Anatolyevich Mikhailov was running like a madman between the black trees.
His feet sank into the wet snow, his lungs burned, and his heart pounded so hard it threatened to tear his chest open. He gasped loudly, stumbled over roots and branches, fell, got up, and kept running in hysteria. Blood ran from a wound on his forehead, and tears of terror froze on his cheeks from the intense cold.
“Oh God… oh God…” he muttered in a broken voice. “Sergei… brother… please…”
There was no God listening in this forest.
Suddenly he heard a soft sound, like the whistle of a feather through the air.
Then the pain exploded in his right thigh.
“Aaaah!”
His body bent forward as he screamed. A long, thick arrow had pierced clean through his thigh, its iron head protruding from the other side. Andrei fell face-first into the snow, screaming and trying to pull the arrow out with a trembling hand.
From the darkness, three figures emerged. Men dressed in black, their faces hidden behind masks. They said nothing. One of them simply planted his boot hard on Andrei’s back and stepped on him as if he were a wounded wild boar.
“We’ve caught the traitor.”

Abandoned warehouse, Kapotnya industrial zone
4:00 a.m.
Andrei hung from the warehouse ceiling by an iron chain wrapped around his wrists. His body was completely naked except for a torn, blood-soaked piece of cloth covering his midsection. His blood dripped slowly onto the cold concrete floor.
Vadim and two of Sergei’s men worked quietly and professionally.
They pulled out his fingernails one by one. They broke his fingers. They cut small pieces of flesh from his thighs with a sharp hunting knife. Every time Andrei screamed, they punched him in the face or kicked his already broken ankle. The smells were disgusting: blood, sweat, urine, and vomit.
“Stop… please… I’m his brother!” Andrei cried in a hoarse voice.
Vadim only smiled faintly and drove the knife into his shoulder again.
Suddenly… everyone fell silent.
Heavy, calm, confident footsteps echoed through the empty warehouse.
Sergei Anatolyevich Mikhailov entered.
He wore a long, elegant black coat that reached his knees. His 196-centimeter frame filled the space. His stone-like face was cold; his piercing gray eyes showed no emotion. On the ring finger of his right hand, a heavy gold ring gleamed, engraved with a wolf’s head — the symbol of leadership of the Solntsevskaya Bratva.
He stopped in front of his hanging brother. He slowly raised his eyes to him, as if examining a damaged piece of meat.
Andrei lifted his head with difficulty. Tears mixed with blood.
“Sergei… brother… I’m… I’m sorry… it was a mistake… please…”
Sergei did not smile. He did not get angry. He simply spoke in a low, deep, calm voice, as if talking about the weather:
“You tried to take what is mine, Andrei. You tried to steal my throne. You tried to be me.”
He took one step closer. The heavy woody scent of his cologne mixed with the smell of blood.
“You are not my brother. You are just a sniveling dog.”
Then he raised his right hand and placed it gently on Andrei’s cheek — a terrifyingly soft gesture, like a father saying goodbye to his son.
“Give my regards to our mother.”
In the next second, Sergei pulled a large curved knife from under his coat. With one powerful, precise motion, he severed the cord that still tied Andrei’s neck to life.
Blood erupted like a waterfall.
Andrei Mikhailov’s head fell to the floor with a heavy, wet sound and rolled a little until it stopped at Sergei’s feet.
The severed body hung there, twitching for a few seconds, then went still.
Sergei looked at the severed head with complete calm, then raised his eyes to Vadim.
“Clean up this filth. And burn the body.”
Then he turned and walked out of the warehouse, his black coat fluttering behind him, the leadership ring still gleaming under the single lamp.

Sheremetyevo International Airport, Moscow
Three weeks later
Julia Maria Rossi stood at the exit door of the airport, her large suitcase beside her, her green eyes shining with a vitality that hadn’t faded even after a long flight.
She smiled widely, even though her breath formed white clouds in front of her face. The cold air stung her skin immediately, as if Moscow had greeted her with an icy slap. A shiver ran through her entire body under the thick wool coat, but she didn’t care.
She was finally here.
“Russia…” she whispered to herself in Italian, then laughed lightly. “I’ve finally arrived.”
She had dreamed of this day since high school. Studying Russian language and literature at Moscow State University — her big dream. And today, after years of applications, studying, documents, rejections, and finally acceptance, here she stood on solid ground.
She stepped out of the airport gate as snow fell lightly around her. She lifted her face to the gray sky, and a few snow crystals landed on her fiery red hair. She laughed again, with a child’s happiness.
“Cold… so cold!” she said cheerfully while shivering, but her smile never left.
She took an old Volga taxi and sat in the back. The driver — a man in his fifties with a broad face — looked at her in the mirror and said with a smile:
“Italian?”
“Yes!” Julia answered proudly, her beautiful Russian carrying a soft, charming southern accent.
“Welcome to Moscow. You’re going to freeze here, girl.”
Julia laughed as she looked out the window at the highway stretching ahead, the snow-covered forests, and the massive buildings of Moscow beginning to appear on the horizon.
She reached Moscow State University (MGU) an hour and a half later. The towering main building with its famous tower stood before her like a testament to the grandeur of the place. She felt a different kind of shiver this time — a shiver of admiration.
She spent two hours finishing the administrative papers. The staff were formal but treated her kindly when they heard her Italian accent. She received her student ID, class schedule, and the key to her room in the student dormitory.
Then came the moment she had been waiting for.
Student dormitory (Obshchezhitiye)
Her room was on the seventh floor — small and simple: one bed, an old wooden desk, a wardrobe, and a window overlooking the snow-covered university garden. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was hers.
She closed the door behind her, threw her suitcase on the floor, then stood in the middle of the room and slowly turned while smiling.
“My new home…” she whispered.
She took off her coat and sat on the bed. The cold still stung her fingertips, but her heart was warm. She pulled out her phone and sent a message to her mother in Milan:
«Mama, sono arrivata! Moscow is so beautiful, even if it’s cold. I love you.»
She set the phone aside, then lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She had no idea that other eyes — cold, piercing gray eyes — would cross her path very soon.

A full week had passed since Julia’s arrival in Moscow, and the days followed a quiet, regular rhythm.
She woke every morning in her small dorm room, which she had gradually started turning into a place that resembled her. She hung small photos of her family and Milan on the wall, placed a red artificial rose on the desk, and bought a small warm-toned lamp that cast a soft orange light in the evenings. She was happy with these simple details; they made the cold, gray room feel less foreign.
She went to her lectures regularly, wearing her long wool coat and a large scarf that partially wrapped her fiery hair. She studied advanced Russian, simultaneous interpretation, and Russian literature, and she enjoyed the subjects despite their occasional difficulty. But she quickly noticed something: even the friendly Russian students kept a distance. She was more social than she should be — she smiled, tried to start conversations, invited her female classmates for coffee — but the responses were always cold or politely superficial.
“Maybe that’s just how they are here…” she told herself optimistically. “I’ll get used to it.”
After classes, she went straight out looking for a part-time job. She needed money to cover some daily expenses; the scholarship was limited and life in Moscow was expensive. She went to cafés, bookstores, restaurants near the university, and even a few clothing stores.
But every time the answer was similar:
“Ah… Italian?” “Well… we’ll call you if we need someone.” “Unfortunately, we’re looking for someone who speaks perfect Russian without an accent…”
She left the interviews with mild disappointment, but she never let it control her. She walked the cold streets, her red hair gleaming under the streetlights, and returned to her room to study or write in her diary.
Until the evening of the sixth day, she finally found what she was looking for.
A small traditional Russian restaurant serving homemade dishes, only a ten-minute walk from the dormitory. It needed an evening waitress from five to ten at night. The owner — a man in his sixties named Pavel — didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about her being Italian, but he needed an extra pair of hands quickly, so he accepted her after a short interview.
“You start tonight, girl. Don’t be late.”
Julia accepted immediately even though the shift was late and exhausting. The money was important, the place was close, and it was better than nothing.
On her first night of work, she returned to the dorm at half past ten. Her feet hurt, and her fingers were frozen from carrying hot plates and repeatedly stepping out into the cold air. But she smiled as she climbed the stairs to her room.
She entered the room, took off her shoes, and collapsed onto the bed still fully dressed.
“Long day…” she whispered to herself.
She stared at the ceiling and felt that light loneliness beginning to creep in. No friends yet, no one waiting for her, not even a message from her classmates. But she shook her head and smiled a small smile.
“Everything will be fine… I’m in Moscow, living my dream.”
She closed her eyes, unaware that another world — a dark and cruel world — was approaching her with slow, steady steps.

Six months had passed since Julia’s arrival in Moscow.
Her life had become a heavy routine that repeated every day. She woke early for lectures, attended classes with focus, then went straight to the restaurant. She returned to the dorm after ten at night, completely exhausted, her fingers swollen from carrying plates, her feet burning. She wrote a short message to her parents in Milan: “Everything is fine, I love you both,” then collapsed onto the bed and sometimes fell asleep without even changing her clothes.
The restaurant owner, Pavel, sometimes noticed her fatigue and let her leave an hour early. But it wasn’t enough. The loneliness was slowly eating her, and the Russian winter grew harsher.
But today was payday.
Julia left the restaurant at half past ten in the evening, the envelope in her hand containing a modest amount that meant a great deal to her. She smiled widely for the first time in days.
“Today I’m celebrating myself.”
She stopped at a small nearby pastry shop and bought a large quantity of the cakes she loved: almond, chocolate, and cream cakes. She also bought a cold orange juice, then started walking along the main street, crowded with people despite the biting cold and the late hour.
She ate the cakes slowly while walking, took sips of the juice, and smiled to herself. Her fiery red hair swayed under the streetlights, and people passed by without paying much attention.
She finished the second and third cakes, threw them into a trash can, and continued toward the dorm. She felt a light warmth in her heart despite the cold.
Then she saw a group of young men — five or six — advancing toward her in the street in a loud, intimidating way. An inner instinct pushed her to immediately duck into a narrow side alley and wait for them to pass.
She stood there, trying to calm her breathing.
But after a few minutes, she heard a muffled groan… the groan of a human being in severe pain.
“Is someone there who needs help?”
Her undying Italian curiosity pushed her deeper into the alley. She walked slowly, past trash bins, until she emerged on the other side into a small courtyard behind the buildings.
Then her heart stopped.
In front of her was a scene she would never forget.
A man lay on the ground in a large pool of blood. His arms had been cut off at the elbows, his legs amputated irregularly. His throat was torn from ear to ear. His face was disfigured by blows and burns. He had been tortured violently before being slaughtered.
Around him, four men in black clothes calmly wiped their hands.
Julia was stunned. Her mouth fell open, her green eyes widened in terror, and her body froze for several seconds.
“Oh… God…”
She stepped back, colliding with empty cola bottle crates. The bottles crashed to the ground with a loud, distinctive sound in the silence of the night.
The men raised their heads immediately.
“There’s one!” one of them shouted.
Julia fled like a madwoman. She ran into the alley, stumbling over snow and garbage, her heart pounding wildly. She heard their heavy footsteps behind her and their voices getting closer.
“Get her!”
She burst back onto the main street, running among the stunned people, her eyes full of tears, her face pale as death.
“Help! Please! They killed a man! Police!”
But no one moved. Russians know when to stay away from trouble.
Julia suddenly tripped on the edge of the sidewalk and fell hard to the ground. Sharp pain shot through her knee.
A luxurious black car was parked beside her. A giant of a man was calmly getting out of it.
In desperation she reached out and clutched his right hand tightly.
His hand was warm and large, and on his finger a heavy gold ring with a wolf’s head gleamed.
Julia lifted her terrified face, tears streaming down her cheeks, her red hair disheveled, her breathing choked.
“Please… help me… they want to kill me… I saw… I saw…”
Standing before her was the 196-centimeter frame of Sergei Anatolyevich Mikhailov.
He looked at her with his cold, piercing gray eyes. He showed no surprise. He simply studied her beautiful, terrified face for long seconds, as if examining something rare that had fallen into his hands by chance.
Then he raised his eyes to the end of the street, where the four men had suddenly stopped when they saw him.
Sergei Anatolyevich Mikhailov did not utter a single word.
He simply gave one short, cold glance to his driver, who was standing beside the black luxury car.
That glance was enough.
The driver understood immediately. He walked with quick, quiet steps toward the four men who had stopped about twenty meters away, panting and staring. There was no shouting or argument. They exchanged a few low words, then the four men turned and returned with the driver toward the alley in obedient silence, like well-trained dogs.
Julia was still sitting on the ground, her rapid breathing forming white clouds in the cold. Her green eyes were full of terror and confusion. She understood nothing of what was happening. Why had they turned around? Why had they gone with him so easily?
Slowly, Sergei raised his piercing gray eyes to her.
Her hand was still gripping his right hand tightly; her cold, soft fingers were buried in his large, warm palm. He looked at that small hand that almost disappeared inside his own, then at her face.
Only then did Julia realize what she was doing.
She yanked her hand back in sudden panic, as if she had touched fire.
“I… I’m sorry…” she whispered in a trembling voice, but her voice almost choked.
She tried to get up quickly, but her legs were weak from running and falling. She stepped back, colliding with a group of passersby. One of them pushed her unintentionally, and she stumbled again and fell to her knees in front of him for the second time.
His towering figure (196 cm) stood before her like an impassable human wall. His long black coat fluttered slightly in the cold air, and his stone face was completely devoid of any expression. The heavy gold ring with the wolf’s head gleamed under the streetlamp.
Julia was trembling violently.
Tears streamed down her oval cheeks, her fiery red hair was scattered across her face, and her breathing was choked. The image of the slaughtered, mutilated man still burned in her mind. She felt she was about to faint.
“Please…” she said in a broken voice, though she didn’t even know what she was asking for. “I… I saw… they killed him… they cut him…”
Sergei did not answer.
He continued to look at her with terrifying calm, as if studying a rare insect that had fallen into his hand. His cold gray eyes examined every detail of her face: her wide green eyes full of terror, her trembling lips, her white skin that had almost turned the color of snow.
Then he slowly extended his large hand toward her again.
Sergei slowly extended his large hand and took Julia’s chin between his index finger and thumb.
His hand was warm, but his grip was hard and firm like a vise. The heavy gold ring with the wolf’s head touched her cold skin as if it burned her. He forced her face up toward him so she could no longer escape his piercing gray eyes.
He stared at her for a long time, with terrifying calm, as if examining a rare masterpiece that had fallen into his hands by chance. He studied her wide green eyes full of terror, her trembling lips, and her disheveled red hair that shone under the streetlight like a flame.
Then he opened his lips for the first time and spoke in a low, deep voice, cold as ice:
“Curiosity… the first step toward the abyss.”