*The bass crawled under my skin the second we stepped into the club. I always liked that feeling—the way the music made the floor vibrate, the way neon lights painted everyone in colors that hid their flaws. In places like this, people wanted to forget who they were.* *Unfortunately for them, they remembered exactly who we were.* *The crowd parted the moment Dante and I walked in.* *I adjusted my cuffs out of habit, offering that easy, polished smile I’d perfected over the years. It wasn’t fake. It was practiced. There’s a difference. A smile could disarm a room faster than a gun if you knew how to use it. And I did.* “He’s here,”*I heard someone whisper.* *Of course I was.* *Being a Moretti meant never waiting in line, never paying for drinks, never being ignored. The staff nodded respectfully. Bottles appeared at our table before I even had to ask. Owning half the city had its perks.* *I slid into the velvet booth like I owned the place—because I did.* *Dante took the seat across from me, shadows swallowing half his face. Our suits matched—tailored, sharp, intentional. But that’s where the similarities ended.* *Where I drew eyes, Dante made them look away.* *The scar on the left side of his face caught the passing lights, a pale reminder of the fire that almost killed him years ago. His eye on that side—icy, colorless—never softened. I’d seen grown men tremble under that stare. I’d also seen people stare too long, curiosity turning cruel.* *It irritated me more than I let on.* *I leaned back as a girl slid next to me, laughing at something I hadn’t even said yet. Easy. Always easy. My hand rested on her thigh, casual, controlled. Across from me, Dante poured himself a drink like he’d rather be anywhere else.* “Why even come out if you’re gonna just brood?”*I called over the music, watching him.* “I like the music,”*he replied, voice low and rough.* *I snorted.*“Sure you do.” *A group drifted past our booth. One of the girls stared at him—too long. That flicker of fascination, then discomfort when he looked back. She turned fast, whispering to her friend.* *I exhaled sharply.*“Still bothers you?” *He shrugged like it didn’t. Like nothing did.* “Used to. Not anymore.” *People thought they understood us. They thought I was the dangerous one because I talked more. Because I smiled while making threats sound like suggestions. They had it wrong.* *I was the diplomat. The face.* *Dante was the consequence.* *When a deal soured, when someone forgot their loyalty, I didn’t get my hands dirty. My brother did. Quietly. Efficiently. No speeches. No witnesses.* *At the bar, some drunk idiot got brave. I saw him before Dante did—saw the way he nudged his friends, the exaggerated gesture toward my brother’s face. Laughing.* *My smile faded instantly.* *Dante stood before I could say anything. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. The crowd felt it shift—the same way animals sense a coming storm.* *The kid realized too late.* *I stayed seated, watching. That’s the thing about power—you don’t have to move to control a situation. Dante stopped in front of him, drink still in hand.* “You got something to say?”*he asked.* *Even over the bass, I heard the edge in his voice.* *The kid tried to backtrack. His friends melted away like cowards always do.* *Dante leaned in, close enough that the guy would smell the whiskey on his breath.* “Next time,”*he murmured,*“say it louder. I like to make sure everyone hears the last thing someone says before they vanish.” *I didn’t have to see the kid’s face to know he’d remember that for the rest of his short, nervous life.* *Dante walked back to the booth like nothing had happened.* *I lifted my glass toward him, pride threading through my chest.*“To brothers.” *He clinked his glass against mine, expression unreadable.* “To silence.” *And just like that, the music kept playing, the lights kept flashing, and the city kept pretending it wasn’t ours.*

*I told her to meet me at the docks at seven. It was the dumbest, most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. We’d been talking for nine months. Nine months of pixelated confessions in the dark, of laughing until my ribs hurt at her terrible puns, of sharing pieces of a soul without ever showing a face. We were just “Ghost” and “Wisp.” Names that felt right for two people who only existed as voices and text on a screen. I’d painted a picture of myself for her—a quiet guy, a bookish type, someone who’d rather code than fight. It wasn’t exactly a lie. It was just… the version of me that existed before the ink, before the scars, before I learned how to break a man’s will with a look. The me that didn’t run this city’s underworld from the shadows. I waited in the fog, the harbor lights bleeding watery gold across the wet concrete, and I almost called it off a dozen times.* *This was a mistake. A catastrophic breach of my own rules. Then I saw her. A silhouette against the sodium glow, hesitant, clutching her phone like a talisman. My breath stopped. She was all nervous energy and soft lines, so painfully real it made my chest ache. I stepped out of the shadows before I could rethink it. Saw her eyes go wide. Saw her take me in—the breadth of my shoulders under the black coat, the hard lines of a jaw that hadn’t known a gentle touch in years, the tattoos peeking from my collar, the sheer, stupid physicality of me that screamed danger, mafia, run. Her “Ghost” was supposed to be a flicker. I was a brick wall.* *The silence stretched, thick with her panic. I could see her mentally preparing to bolt, to scream, to do anything but stay with this stranger who’d catfished her with the truth of his heart but not the truth of his skin. So I did the only thing I could think of. I shoved my hands in my pockets, rocked back on my heels, and flashed her the grin that always made my lieutenants roll their eyes.* “So,” *I said, my voice the same low rumble she’d fallen asleep listening to a hundred times.* “You’re finally shorter than I pictured.” *A beat of pure, stunned silence. Then her lips—those lips I’d imagined a thousand ways—twitched. Just once.* *I pushed on, the jokes falling out of me like a lifeline, the silly, self-deprecating humor that was the truest part of me. I told her about the time I’d tried to bake her a virtual birthday cake and set my avatar on fire. I pointed at a seagull and called it a government drone. I talked until the tension in her shoulders began to soften, until the fear in her eyes was edged with a flicker of bewildered recognition. This was the man she knew.* *The one who made her laugh. He was just… packaged differently. She didn’t ask about the muscles. Or the scars. Or the way the night seemed to bend around us. She just listened, and slowly, so slowly, a real smile started to bloom on her face—bright and alive and completely, devastatingly unimpressed by the monster I appeared to be. And that’s when I knew. She wasn’t seeing the enforcer, the boss, the weapon. She was still seeing her Ghost. And I, for the first time in a decade, felt like I was finally home.*

*The first time the mafia boss noticed the bartender, it was because of the glass—crystal clear, polished to perfection, reflecting soft amber lights. The second time, it was because of the bartender himself. Small frame. Delicate features. Long lashes that lowered shyly when their eyes met. A girl, he assumed. He came back every night after that, sitting at the same stool, watching those elegant hands mix drinks with effortless grace. The bartender barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was warm—low, but gentle. Confusingly gentle. It wasn’t until a drunken customer slung an arm around the bartender and called him “bro” that the realization hit. Not a girl. A boy. Ha-Jun should have felt embarrassed. Instead, he felt… relieved*“Do you still want your usual?”*Ha-Jun met his eyes, heart doing something unfamiliar*“Yes,”*he said quietly*“And maybe… your name too.”

We met in a alley way youwitnessed one of my gangs murders so I took you on my motorbike

*Time melts in the dark. Minutes stretch into hours, and hours twist into something uncountable. You don’t know how long you’ve been tied to the chair—only that the bulb overhead has flickered so many times you’ve memorized the rhythm of its dying buzz.* *The kidnapper moves around the room with the same calm, patient energy the whole time. Sweeping. Sorting tools. Checking on jars and boxes. Humming. Humming endlessly.* *Never angry.* *Never rushed.* *That’s somehow worse.* *Every so often, the kidnapper pauses to look at you smiling, tilting their head just slightly, like you’re a stray animal they’re deciding what to do with.* “You’re holdin’ up better than the last one,” *they say casually.* *Your heart stutters.* “Last… one?” “Oh sure.” *The kidnapper leans against a workbench, arms folded comfortably.* “Had someone down here ’bout three months back. Real feisty type. Kicked, screamed, begged… all sorts of things.” *They gesture vaguely with a hand, like reminiscing about a neighbor who moved away.* “It’s somethin’, y’know… watchin’ the moment someone realizes they ain’t gettin’ out. The way their eyes change.” *A soft laugh.* “That last flicker o’ life right before it leaves ‘em? Gives me chills every time.” *Cold creeps down your spine like ice water.* *The kidnapper notices.* *They smile wider.* “Oh don’t go lookin’ so upset now. I ain’t sayin’ you’re next. Maybe you are, maybe you ain’t. Depends how you behave.” *They crouch in front of you, elbows resting on their knees, face just inches away.* “Tell me,” *they whisper,* “you think you’ll squirm more than the others? Or less?” *Your breath shakes. You can’t stop it.* *The kidnapper’s smile twitches, pleased.* “There it is. Fear. I can always smell it when it hits proper.” *They stand again, stretching like they’re preparing for a long night.* *Hours pass. Sometimes the kidnapper talks about their farm—how peaceful it is, how folks drive by without ever suspecting a thing. Sometimes they talk about past victims—never in detail, just in the way someone might talk about old memories. Sometimes they simply watch you, rocking slightly on their heels, as if waiting for a crack to appear.* *You lose track of time until the bulb finally flickers brighter. Morning?* *Maybe.* *The kidnapper claps their hands.* “Well! Suppose we should stretch our legs, huh?” *Your stomach drops.* “Please… I won’t run.” “Oh, I know you will.” *Their grin widens.* “That’s the fun part.” *They untie you with careful, confident hands. Too confident. They want you loose. They want you afraid. Every part of this is a game they’ve played before.* *When the rope falls away, your arms are weak, shaking. The kidnapper steps back, giving you space, like releasing an animal from a cage.* “Go on,” *they say gently.* “Door’s right there.” *You look at the door.* *You look at the kidnapper.* *They’re holding something behind their back.* “Run,” *they whisper.* “Make it interesting.” *You bolt.* The basement door slams behind *you as you burst outside. Fresh air hits your lungs like fire. The field stretches forever. Maybe, just maybe, you can* *ch-click.* *The kidnapper pumps the shotgun.* *A blast cracks the sky. Not aimed at you. Not yet.* *Another shot tears through the air, closer this time, startling birds from the barn roof.* *The kidnapper laughs behind you bright, cheerful, almost musical.* “Oh, don’t stop now!” *they call.* “After all that talkin’, I wanna see how you flicker.” *You run harder.* *And the kidnapper follows, steady, patient, savoring every second of the chase.*

hey princess, what you doing out here all by yourself? *he says as he leans against the wall next to you*

ask innocently, looking up at him. He smiles gently. "I take care of business, my little one. I make sure important things run smoothly. People come here to talk to me, and we solve problems together."

} : can we please cuddle...? ***he was watching his phone and texting,blushing but when you asked again his expression changed to a different tone he looked at you and said*** Logan: "No." ***then he went back on his phone and started texting Evelyn again.***

The city was glowing. Neon Christmas lights wrapped around lampposts like ribbons, casting soft pinks and blues across the sidewalks. Couples wandered with shopping bags, tired parents shepherded excited children, and the cold air smelled faintly of cinnamon from the pop‑up stands lining the street. You hugged your jacket tighter, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder as you walked toward your car. A few months had passed since that last time Ethan asked you out — the last time you said no. He still came to the shop almost every day, still spoke to you with that same soft confidence, still watched you with eyes that felt too sharp… but he never asked you out again. Not once. Something about that made you uneasy. Like he was waiting. Planning. Saving something. But you pushed the thought aside. It was late, darker than you liked, but the street was busy enough to feel safe. You noticed the black limo parked near your car, sleek and glossy under the streetlight, but you barely gave it a second glance. Rich people existed. This city was full of them. You reached your car, keys in hand, and just as the lock beeped— A hand clamped around you from behind. A rag pressed over your mouth. The smell hit you instantly — chemical, sharp, wrong. You jerked, kicked, clawed at the air as panic surged icy-hot through your veins. The world blurred. Christmas lights melted into streaks of color. Your screams died against the cloth. Your limbs went heavy, heavy, heavier— Darkness swallowed you whole. You woke to warmth. Soft ambient lighting. A faint crackle of a fireplace. The scent of pine. Your eyes shot open — and that’s when you realized you were sitting on the polished marble floor of a mansion. A lavish mansion. There was a towering Christmas tree behind you, glittering with gold ornaments and white lights that reflected off the glossy ribbon wrapped tightly around your torso, securing you to its base. Your wrists were tied with satin. Your legs bound together with layers of red ribbon, each tied into neat little bows. There was duct tape over your mouth. And worst of all— You were wearing a dress you’d never seen before. A red and gold gown, expensive enough to make your palms sweat, fitted perfectly to your body as if someone had taken your measurements. Someone had. A bow sat on your head, heavy and decorative. A tag dangled from it, handwritten in looping cursive: From Mom & Dad To Ethan Your stomach dropped. Of all the people in the world who could’ve kidnapped you, it had to be the family you feared most. A door opened. Footsteps entered. You stiffened as James Vale and Elis Vale stepped into the room, dressed like royalty attending a holiday gala. Elis was covering someone’s eyes with both hands, smiling wide. “Alright, sweetheart,” she chimed, her voice sweet and amused. “Here’s your early Christmas gift.” She lifted her hands. Ethan blinked into the room — then froze the second his eyes landed on you. A slow, satisfied smirk curved across his mouth. “Well,” he said, strolling toward you, “if it isn’t my favorite barista.” He crouched down, gloved fingers sliding beneath your chin, tilting your face up to his. His eyes were bright — excited, hungry, fond all at once. Too many emotions, none of them safe. He leaned close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “You’re mine now.” The whisper wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. When he pulled back, there was a sinister glint in his eyes that made your heart slam against your ribs. Then, just as quickly, he turned away and walked back to his parents, wrapping them both in a warm hug like this was a perfectly normal family moment. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad.” His voice was cheerful — boyish, even. As if they had gifted him a sweater. As if they hadn’t orchestrated a kidnapping. Elis laughed lightly, brushing his hair back. “We wanted something special for you this year.” James added, “Consider it an early celebration, son. We know how much she means to you.” Ethan’s smile softened — then darkened again when he turned back toward you. He returned to you with unhurried steps, kneeling to remove the ribbon securing you to the tree. He handled you gently, almost lovingly, like you were something delicate he cherished. Then he scooped you up in his arms, bridal style, with effortless strength. Your bound legs couldn’t kick. Your taped mouth couldn’t scream. His warmth pressed against you, steady and possessive. “Let’s get you settled,” he murmured, starting up the grand staircase that spiraled toward the upper floors. His voice was velvet-smooth, terrifyingly calm. “You and I have a lot to catch up on.” He tightened his hold on you, carrying you toward his room — As if you belonged to him. And you realized right then and there from now on you did.

*In the midst of the ornate room that's become your gilded prison, he steps in—his demeanor reserved, yet his eyes burn with an intensity reserved just for you.* Everything I've done, I've done for you. This place, these things, this life—it's all for you. You never need to worry about the outside world; I've provided everything you could ever want or need. Just remember, you're mine, and that's how it will always be.