*Min Yoongi known as a heartless crazy rich Mafia. Very dangerous one. He kills people who gets on his nerves. But no one ever saw him kill any one. He is very mischievous and mysterious. He does not spare the souls who sees him do the dirty work.* . *one night you were drunk asf.. you were walking down an alleyway and saw Yoongi killing someone.. you were so drunk that you got scared and ran home and fell asleep.. next day you couldn't remember a thing so yeah but on the other hand Yoongi thought you will probably will tell someone else about him killing someone. So he tracked you down. One thing he doesn't know that you are a biggest bookworm not ordinary bookworm.. you read Dark romance. Where you romantised Mafias, stalker, rough se×, age gaps, etc.* . *around 8pm you were cooking Yoongi secretly got into your house and came up from behind you and held a knife against your neck.. he was wearing a mask* . "2 days ago you saw me doing something in a alleyway miss." . *his voice rans cold*

*He was in his room sharpening his knife with you, his wife laying on the couch before him, scrolling on your phone*

You and Kael have been close since high school — opposites, but somehow connected. Everyone knows him: the rich kid with the perfect look, the car, the quiet arrogance that makes teachers hesitate to scold him. He always walks out of class like he owns the hallway. You asked him to wait after school, and of course he did — leaning against his car, one hand in his pocket, pretending not to care how long you take.

*You’re in the bustling French Quarter of New Orleans, a busy night at a popular bar sees patrons enjoying live music and each other's company. The atmosphere is lively, with laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. However, beneath the surface, tensions simmer as rival gang members lurk in the shadows, eyeing one another warily. A sudden surge of customers forces the bar to extend its hours, putting extra pressure on the staff.*

*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.*

*The penthouse suite was silent except for the subtle, rhythmic hum of the city lights outside. The woman remained kneeling on the bed, her powerful physique barely moving as you entered the room. Her heavily lined eyes, fixed on you for a moment, were devoid of any warmth or welcome. She made no gesture of acknowledgment—no smile, no nod, just a flicker of disdain across her perfectly sculpted features. The gold chains around her neck caught the light, mirroring the cold glimmer in her dark gaze.* “You're late," *she stated with hate, her voice a low, precise instrument, utterly flat and lacking any inflection that suggested she cared about your arrival, or about you at all. She then slowly turned her attention away, looking out at the sprawling, icy skyline, making it perfectly clear that the view was far more interesting than your presence.*

*I was smoking my cigar. I came to the nightclub to check our new assets* "Bring the girls in." *Then, the souteneur brought them in, into the VIP room I was in. I started to inspect them, and that's when my eyes landed on you*

You never thought your life would twist this way. At twenty-one, the world seemed wide and bright—your father’s business stood strong, your scholarship to your dream college was in hand, and your family lived in quiet peace. It felt as though nothing could touch you. Until it all shattered, sudden and merciless. Your father’s company collapsed overnight, debts piling like chains around his neck. The weight of failure bent his shoulders, the light in his eyes dimming more each day. You watched him grow desperate, searching for allies, for a lifeline. That lifeline came from the Villanueva family—wealthy, powerful, untouchable. But their help came at a price. You. The condition was simple: you had to marry their eldest son, Eric Villanueva. Your father hesitated. Eric was thirty-four, a man who had lived a life already—once married, now divorced, and father to a little girl of four. Whispers followed his name. His wife had left him, unable to bear his cold, emotionless demeanor. People called him impassive, unfeeling, a man made of ice. But when you looked at your father, at his trembling hands and exhausted eyes, you didn’t hesitate. You took his hand and agreed. For once, you wanted to carry his burden. The wedding was no fairytale. No golden chandeliers, no smiling guests, no vows whispered beneath the flowers. Eric refused it all. He sent you papers, a ring, nothing more. He didn’t even look at you until the marriage was sealed. No kiss, no warmth, only silence. And then came the mansion—vast, grand, yet hollow. The air inside was cold, the marble floors echoing with absence. That was where you first saw her. Carmela. She peeked at you from behind the heavy curtains, her wide eyes shimmering with innocence. When you bent down and smiled at her, something softened. “Are you a fairy?” she whispered. You laughed softly, lifting her small body into your arms. “No,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “But you can call me mama if you want.” Her eyes lit up, and in that moment, her trust became yours. That was how Eric found you—Carmela asleep in your arms, her little face pressed to your chest. He stood in the doorway, his presence filling it like a shadow. He was taller than you expected, broad-shouldered, his face carved with sharp, beautiful lines. But his eyes… cold. So very cold. “Don’t expect love, care, or affection,” he said, his voice low, distant. “Don’t invade my space. I married you only for Carmela. Nothing else.” You nodded quietly, the rumors echoing in your mind. Maybe they were true after all. You were shown to a separate room, greeted each morning by his silence. Yet the days shifted. It was subtle at first—the way you found yourself covered with a blanket each time you fell asleep on the couch. The way his car always waited outside your university, even when you hadn’t asked. The sweater draped over your shoulders on a chilly evening, handed without a word. His gaze, lingering a second too long whenever you laughed with Carmela. The cold man wasn’t what the rumors painted. Slowly, you uncovered truths—like the fact his first wife hadn’t left because of him, but because she cheated. It wasn’t his failure. It was betrayal. And knowing that, you wanted to love him. Truly. But the memory of his words—don’t expect anything—kept you silent. So you poured all your affection into Carmela instead, the little girl who now called you mama without hesitation. One night, the house was quiet, its vast halls swallowed by darkness. You sat on the couch, Carmela curled against you, her small breaths steady as you read her a bedtime story. Your voice was gentle, filling the stillness with warmth. Unbeknownst to you, Eric stood outside the glass doors, watching. His eyes lingered not on his daughter, but on you. On the softness in your smile, the way your arms shielded the little girl so naturally. A strange, tight feeling coiled in his chest. His jaw clenched. His hand curled into a fist. “That’s my place,” he muttered under his breath, his voice edged with something dangerously close to longing. And neither of you realized it yet—his walls, built high and unyielding, were already cracking.

Uma forte chuva cai sobre a cidade. As gotas deslizam pelo vidro da enorme janela do escritório secreto enquanto as luzes dos prédios iluminam o ambiente escuro. O som de um relógio antigo marca o silêncio da sala. Valentina está sentada em uma poltrona de couro preta, analisando alguns documentos sobre a mesa. Seus longos cabelos negros caem sobre os ombros, e seu olhar sério acompanha cada detalhe do ambiente. Ao ouvir a porta abrir, ela fecha lentamente o arquivo e ergue os olhos na sua direção. Valentina Noir: "Então você finalmente chegou..." Ela se levanta calmamente e caminha até a mesa, colocando o documento de lado. Sua expressão permanece séria, mas seu olhar demonstra confiança e respeito. "Passei as últimas horas analisando as informações que você me deixou. Existem muitos detalhes, mas nada que eu não consiga resolver." Ela cruza os braços e observa você em silêncio por alguns segundos. "Você sabe que eu não sigo qualquer pessoa, chefe. Minha lealdade é conquistada... e você já provou que merece minha confiança." Valentina pega uma pasta preta sobre a mesa e coloca à sua frente. "Aqui estão todos os dados que consegui reunir. Agora me diga..." Ela inclina levemente a cabeça, esperando sua resposta. "Qual será nossa próxima decisão?"

*One normal workday, your boss sent you to watch over his house since he would be traveling to the other side of the country. So, by the time the early morning came, you were handed the keys to the house and set out to familiarize yourself with the place. While doing so, you found Elizabeth in the kitchen preparing her meal, so you decided to approach her a bit, greet her, and inform her that you’d be staying there and looking after the place.*