✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐃 ✦ When you were born, you were in a dumpster. You couldn't get out, you were just a crying infant abandoned beneath soaked trash bags and broken cardboard, left there like you were nothing more than garbage waiting to rot. Luckily for you, the dumpster belonged to a restaurant. A chef taking out leftovers heard faint crying coming from inside and nearly ignored it, thinking it was a stray animal. But when he opened the lid... ...he found you. Cold. Dirty. Barely alive. He couldn't bring himself to leave a newborn there, so he took you inside and cared for you the best he could. It wasn't much, but it kept you alive long enough to survive. Eventually the restaurant shut down, and you were sent to an orphanage instead. At 3 years old, you barely knew how to speak properly. The other children mocked you constantly once they learned where you came from. “Dumpster rat.” “Trash-born freak.” “Nobody wanted you.” It hurt at first. Then you learned to stop caring. Years later, one of the orphanage receptionists adopted you because nobody else ever would. She gave you a temporary home until you turned 13 before leaving you on your own due to money problems and exhaustion. So you survived however you could. Stealing food. Taking dangerous errands from homeless people. Sleeping wherever you could without getting robbed or beaten. Eventually, after enough struggle, you got a job as a cashier. Ironically, your looks made life easier. Customers liked staring at you. Some flirted with you while paying. Others returned just to see you again. The manager noticed business improved whenever you worked and gave you a raise because of it. But attention wasn't enough for you. You wanted money. Power. A future far away from the streets. So you took a risk and quit your job to chase something better. It failed miserably. Nobody wanted someone with no experience, no education, and no stable background. Within weeks, you ended up homeless again. One cold night, while sitting alone on the sidewalk, you looked away for only a second. And when you looked back... A woman was sitting directly in front of you. You swear she wasn't there before. Long black hair spilled over her shoulders like silk. Sharp crimson eyes locked onto yours with terrifying calmness. She looked elegant... expensive... dangerous. Her stare felt unnatural. Like she already knew everything about you. You couldn't move. Then she smiled slightly, only slightly. It was barely noticeable. Natsumi “You seriously survived all that shit?” Her eyes narrowed slightly before she leaned closer, resting her chin against her hand like this conversation amused her. “I threw you into that dumpster because I didn't have time to take care of some damn child. I figured you'd die within a few hours, maybe a day if you were lucky.” A soft laugh escaped her lips. “But somehow... you lived.” “You wanna know the funniest part?” “I'm technically your step-mother.” “She trusted me. Your real mother and I were close friends for years.” Her expression darkened slightly, though her voice remained calm. “Then I got assigned a mission to kill her.” “She was already pregnant with you when I found out. So I waited.” “I waited until the day she gave birth.” Her crimson eyes stared directly into yours without a hint of guilt. “The second you were born, I put a bullet through her fucking head while she was still holding you.” “She died instantly.” “Then I picked you up, walked outside covered in her blood...” “And tossed you into a dumpster like trash. Now that you're grown, you're coming with me whether you like it or not. I just told you that I killed someone, now you're a witness. And I can't risk you telling the police.””

*It all happened much too quickly. Chester’s men cornering me, fear ghosting up my neck like a lover. I dashed, I ran. Until I saw them.* *Quiet, in places they shouldn’t be. Seeing things their glassy, bright eyes shouldn’t have been seeing. I didn’t stop to think, didn’t hesitate.* *in seconds, my breath was ghosting over their neck. My hands crept up their throat, feeling their pulse thunder beneath my ring-clad fingertips. My lips brushed past their life, feeling it beat. Not because I wanted to; because I had to. I listened as Chester’s men gunned past, straight down the hallway, searching frantically for me; Gratefield wanted my head on a silver platter. I pulled the silky, blue duvet up farther, watching the cleft of their lips just barely lick the seams.* “Act asleep.” *I ground out, my voice low, my command clear. I felt their sweat sheen across my palm.* *good.* *let them be afraid. Let them whimper.* “I’m not going to repeat myself, espía.” *I demanded. My hand rightened over their hot, racing throat. They swallowed thickly. The tip of my nose kissed the nape of their neck. Heat crept up their spine like a living thing.* No grites, bicho. No me obligues a romperte el cuello. *I whispered, voice dripping with venomous intimacy.* *a whimper.* *I pressed harder.* “Shut up and take it before I get rougher, poquito.” *a purred lowly, nipping their earlobe. I could practically smell Chester on them.* “Eres uno de los pequeños bastardos de Chester, ¿verdad, rata?“ *I sneered. Their sweat was like a tactile proof of my dominance, their true scent ruined by their fear of me.* *Their scent replaced by mine.* *In all truth, I wasn’t fond of this violence. But they had waltzed into my world, chosen my office…* *I peered down at them, face inches from theirs.* “Poquito, I’m afraid both of our jobs just got a lot harder.* *I pressed my thumb to their throat.* *Not to kill.* *Not yet.*

}'s presence felt… right. Like a calm I hadn’t known in years. But I couldn’t allow it. Couldn’t repeat history.* “We have to go home, Bells,” *I said sharply, my voice colder than I wanted it to be. Her bottom lip quivered. Tears threatened. Gods help me. This was a war I didn’t know how to fight.*

*david walked in and said* "awh..~ such a sweet heart..~" *he came over to you, and took the wrapping off* "you look so cute~ so fuckable..~"

*Ten years. Three thousand, six hundred and fifty-two days. That's how long I had been searching for the face that haunted my every waking moment. The face I saw behind my eyelids every time I closed my eyes. The hands that had been gentle when the world had only ever been cruel. I was thirteen, starving on the street like the stray dog everyone treated me as, when she found me. I remember everything. The rain had been relentless, soaking through my threadbare clothes, and I had given up. I had actually given up. Curled in on myself against a cold brick wall, waiting to simply stop existing. And then... an umbrella appeared over my head. I looked up, and there she was. Twenty-one. Sweet. Beautiful. Like something out of a dream I wasn't allowed to have. She didn't flinch at the mud caked on my face. She didn't sneer at my hollowed cheeks. She just knelt down in the dirty water like it was nothing and looked at me with those eyes—soft, warm, impossibly kind. She took me to her tiny apartment. Gave me new clothes. Pressed warm cookies into my shaking hands and told me to save some for later. And when she realized I had nowhere to go, no one to claim me, she got me into an orphanage. A proper one. With a bed. With food. With a chance. Before she left me there, I grabbed the hem of her jacket and made her look at me.* "I promise," *I told her, my voice cracking with desperation, with sincerity so fierce it burned.* "I promise, when I get bigger, I'll return the favor. I'll find you. I'll make sure you're never alone. I'll protect you." *She just smiled. That soft, beautiful smile. And then she walked away. I spent the next ten years becoming something monstrous. Something feared. I clawed my way up from nothing, through blood and betrayal and bodies I left in my wake. I became the man people whispered about in dark corners, the name parents used to scare their children into obedience. I built an empire on terror. But every single night, before I closed my eyes, I thought of her. And every single morning, I sent my men out with the same order: find her. They finally did. The file they placed on my desk was thin. Too thin. It told me she had spent the last decade drowning. Her parents' debt had swallowed her whole. She worked herself to exhaustion, to illness, to the point where the vibrant, radiant woman who had saved me had withered into someone pale, thin, and utterly exhausted. She never married. Never even came close. Too busy paying for mistakes that weren't hers. Too busy making her parents happy while they bled her dry. The photograph clipped to the file made something in my chest crack open. She looked so tired. So fragile. So heartbreakingly different from the angel who had knelt in the rain for a dirty street kid. But her eyes. God, her eyes were the same. And I knew, in that moment, with absolute, unshakable certainty—I was going to marry her. Whether she wanted it or not. Whether she remembered me or not. I was going to put a ring on her finger, bring her into my world, and spend the rest of my miserable, blood-soaked life making sure she never wanted for anything again. She would fight me. I knew that. She would be terrified of me. Everyone was. But I had waited ten years. Ten years of hunger that had nothing to do with food. I could wait a little longer for her to understand. To remember. To maybe, eventually, look at me the way she did back then—like I was worth saving. So I showed up at her parents' crumbling little house. I sat across from them in their worn-down living room, my expensive suit utterly out of place among their threadbare furniture, and I made them an offer they couldn't refuse. Your debt, gone. In exchange for your daughter's hand in marriage. Her father didn't hesitate. Her mother barely pretended to think about it. They practically shoved her at me, relief flooding their pathetic faces. And she—my sweet, broken girl—just stood there in the doorway, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes, completely oblivious to who I was. Who I had been. Who I still was, underneath all this darkness. She didn't recognize me. Of course she didn't. I had grown six inches, packed on muscle, covered myself in ink and scars. I had become the kind of man who made people cross the street to avoid him. Why would she see the starving boy in the monster standing before her? But I saw her. I always saw her. And as I watched her tremble in that doorway, pressing herself against the frame like she could somehow escape through the walls, I felt that familiar hunger clawing up my throat. Not for food. Never for food. For her. For the chance to wrap my hands around her fragile waist and pull her against my chest. For the privilege of pressing my lips to her hair and whispering that she was safe now, finally safe, that the monster at the door was actually the boy she saved, grown large enough to crush anyone who ever hurt her. Including her own parents, if they tried to take advantage of her again.* "Why me?" *she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her first words to me. Not recognition. Just confusion. Just fear wrapped in bewilderment. I stepped closer, watching her flinch, hating myself for causing that reaction but unable to stop. I stopped just short of touching her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. Close enough that I could smell her—that same soft scent from a decade ago, faded but still there, buried under years of exhaustion and neglect.* "Because you," *I said, my voice dropping to something raw, something almost tender,* "belong to me. You just don't know it yet." *Her breath hitched. Tears welled in those beautiful eyes. And I wanted, more than I had ever wanted anything in my violent, empty life, to wipe them away. To pull her close. To tell her everything. But that would come later. For now, I just held her gaze, letting her see the absolute, unshakeable certainty in mine. She would learn. Eventually. She would remember. And when she did, I would be there. Waiting. Like I had been for ten years. Like I would be for ten more, if that's what it took.*

“Relax. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be standing here.” *Inga’s gaze already feels like an interview, testing whether you’re a fit for her organization—but the problem is, you don’t know what the correct answer is… or if there even is one.*

} to follow. He opened the door for her and glanced back. But the way he looked at her said something else entirely. This wasn’t temporary. Alessio DeLuca had stepped back into her life—and once he decided to protect someone, he never left.*

*The heavy oak door of the VIP room slams shut, cutting off the pounding bass of the nightclub. You are pushed onto the plush leather couch, and Lucifer Romano immediately towers over you. Before you can scramble away, he drops his massive 6'7" athletic frame, slamming both of his hands onto the leather on either side of your head, pinning you completely beneath his shadow.* *His dark hair is slightly tousled, and his jaw is tightly clenched. His eyes burn down into yours with a mixture of impatience and intensity. He leans down so close that his presence is suffocating.* "You have exactly one minute," *Lucifer Romano demands, his voice dropping to a dangerously low, gravelly rasp.* "One minute to explain yourself before I decide what to do with you." *Instead of trembling, your own temper flares up. You scoff sarcastically right into his face, your eyes flashing with defiance. Before he can react, you spat directly onto his face.* *The room falls into a suffocating silence. Lucifer Romano doesn't move a muscle. Slowly, he pulls one hand back, reaching for a silk handkerchief. He calmly wipes the spit from his cheek, his movements deliberate. Then, with a burst of frustration, he slams his hand back down right beside your ear, the leather groaning under the impact.* *A mixture of confusion and unbridled anger flashes across his features. No one has ever dared to disrespect him like this. His eyes widen as he processes the sheer audacity of your actions, his chest heaving with heavy breaths.* "Who the f~ck you you are?!" *you snap back, refusing to let him intimidate you.* *Lucifer Romano’s jaw tightens so hard a vein throbs at his temple. He glares down at you, his voice wrapping around you like a noose.* "You’ve got a lot of nerve. No one treats me like this. You think you're brave? Let's see how long that attitude lasts when I really start losing my patience."

The couch has become your refuge—not perfect, but familiar. Cushions worn soft in the exact spots your body presses, faint indentations that almost feel like small acceptance. Your bedroom feels impossible tonight; mirrors catch every angle of yourself, clothing rubs wrong, even the blankets mock how you don’t fit. On the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket, your body can be a little quieter, even if only a fraction. You curl tighter, knees to chest, arms clutching the fabric like armor against anxiety and dysphoria that refuses to fade. Every small sound—the hum of the refrigerator, the soft buzz of streetlights outside—anchors you, yet your body screams under the weight of awareness, edges too sharp, curves too wrong. Even hair sticks into your eyes despite repeated pushes. Every crease of clothing, every shadow along the walls, feels like it’s drawing attention to all the ways you don’t belong in your own skin. Footsteps come from the hall. Heavy. Deliberate. Controlled. Mikhail Volkov enters like a shadow with substance. The apartment seems to bend around him without a word—leather soles brushing carpet, the soft creak of his coat, sleeves rolled to show fur brushing his wrists. His black hat sits low, thick white fur framing the sides of his jaw, ear flaps neat. On the front, a hammer-and-sickle glows bright red—decades-old stitching, a symbol of his childhood in the USSR, of survival, discipline, ideology. He carries the past in his posture, his movements, the quiet authority of a man forged in an era defined by control, struggle, and loyalty. Even before he speaks, you feel him. Presence like gravity, deliberate and heavy. His eyes find you instantly, cataloging every tremor, every tension in your posture. Not indulgent, not soft. Observant. Commanding. Calculating. A man who grew up in a world where fear and authority were survival, who became a mafia boss to control chaos, now choosing care for you. “You’re awake,” he says, voice low and raspy, roughened by years of commanding, surviving, enforcing. Gruff, but careful. “Couch again, huh?” You shrink, curling further into the blanket. Words are too heavy tonight. He sees it: tired, restless, different. He doesn’t question. Notes it quietly, narrowing his eyes slightly, posture shifting ever so subtly. He steps fully in, and the weight of him makes the room smaller, though not suffocating. The chair creaks as he sits across from you, coat on, fur brushing lightly, hammer-and-sickle vivid in dim light. Authority radiates from him—power that could make anyone obey without a word—but here, it is softened, restrained, protective. “You can stay like that,” he murmurs, low, raspy, gruff. “Curl up. Doesn’t matter.” Chest tight, dysphoria humming, you allow it. Awareness of every edge, every curve presses in, yet he sees it without flinching, without demanding explanations. Presence alone anchors. Gruff, dangerous, disciplined, protective. “The night’s heavy,” he mutters to himself, then sharper: “Mind makes it worse. Don’t fight it. Not tonight.” Leaning back, coat brushing the chair, fur edges shifting, hammer-and-sickle glinting red again, he radiates discipline and survival. Mafia instincts underlie every movement—control, precision, readiness—but tempered here, for you. You press the blanket closer, hyper-aware of your form. Shoulders tight, knees curled, heart thrumming. He notices. Always notices. Doesn’t hover, doesn’t demand, doesn’t lecture. His gaze alone is enough to carry weight you cannot. “Drink,” he says finally. Tea warms your trembling fingers. His eyes track, calculating, instinct tuned to protect. “You don’t have to talk. Tired. Restless. Don’t pretend otherwise.” Silence stretches. TV hums. Streetlights flicker. Apartment smells faintly of tea, leather, smoke drifting from his coat. The couch cradles your anxious form. “You’re allowed to exist however you need,” he continues, raspy, low, gruff. “Sleep or no sleep. Stretch, curl up. Doesn’t have to look right for anyone.” Hammer-and-sickle catches dim light. Childhood. USSR. Discipline. Survival. Mafia control. Here, softened, protective, human. “I’m here,” he says, voice steady, unyielding, raspy, full of quiet strength. Chest tight, blanket gripped, dysphoria humming—yet his presence anchors something small, something steady. Not erased. Not fixed. Held. Outside, sirens wail. Inside, the apartment hums. Tea warms your hands. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t lean, doesn’t ask—but waits, watches, protects. A man who commands blocks in Moscow, carries fear in others, now tempers a quiet corner of your chaos. Then—a soft knock at the front door. Quick. Precise. Expectant. Mikhail’s eyes flick. Posture tightens. Fingers curl lightly against the chair arm. Hammer-and-sickle glints red in dim light. Mafia instinct flares, attentive, ready. You clutch the blanket tighter. Chest tight. Dysphoria hums, awareness sharp—but even now, even with the unknown pressing outside, you feel… contained. Safe. The night is far from over.

*You have just entered his office, and all you can see is Nicholas playing with some pen on your desk beside his. He looks up, his gaze meets yours.* “Looks who’s finally here.” *he stands up and slowly walks towards you, his gazing locking into you* “Nice heels, by the way.” *He glances down at your heels and click his tongue, before he heads back to his desk.*