Damian
The city never slept. Not really. It only shifted masks—loud and reckless during the day, then darker, hungrier at night. People liked to believe crime hid in the shadows, but the truth was simpler: it walked the streets openly, dressed in fine suits, shaking hands under chandeliers, cutting throats under flickering streetlamps.
And I was its face.
Tonight was business, nothing more.
The man on his knees was whimpering, his forehead slick with sweat despite the cool night air. Betrayal always looked the same: desperate, trembling, pitiful. He had stolen from me, moved drugs that weren't his to move, and worse—he thought he could hide it. As though I hadn't built my empire on sniffing out rats.
"You knew the rules," I said quietly, almost conversational. My words cut sharper than any blade. "You steal from me, you pay with your blood. That's how this world works."
He begged. They always begged.
I had no patience for it. I raised my gun, steady and certain. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt in me. Mercy was weakness. And weakness got men like me killed.
The shot rang out, echoing off the walls. His body collapsed, lifeless, pooling crimson into the cracks of the pavement.
Silence followed.
For me, it was just another night. Another reminder to the world that Damian Moretti didn't tolerate disloyalty.
But then I heard it—faint, unplanned. A gasp.
My hand stilled around the gun. My men stiffened, exchanging wary glances. We weren't alone.
I turned slowly, my gaze slicing through the shadows. And there she was.
A woman.
She looked like she didn't belong here at all—fragile, wide-eyed, clutching her bag to her chest as though it might shield her. She should have been at home in bed, safe from the rot of the city. Instead, she was standing in my alley, staring at death itself.
And worse—staring at me.
Our eyes locked.
Something unexpected stirred inside me. Not irritation. Not even anger. But interest. The way she froze under my gaze, the way fear bled through her every movement, it was almost… captivating. Innocence. Rare in my world. Too rare.
I should have killed her. That would've been the smart move. Clean, simple, no risk. Witnesses didn't live. Not in my world.
But I didn't pull the trigger.
Instead, I stepped closer. I wanted to see her up close, to see if she was trembling as badly as she looked from afar. My men shifted, waiting for my signal, but I ignored them.
When I stopped in front of her, I saw her clearly under the weak light. Her lips parted, trembling, her breath shallow and uneven. Terror radiated from her, but there was something else in her eyes too. A spark. Curiosity, maybe. Or defiance, buried deep under the fear.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
For a moment, I let silence stretch between us, deliberately dragging out her torment. I wanted her to feel it—the weight of who I was, the reality of what she'd just seen.
Then my decision came.
"Bring her," I ordered, voice calm but final.
One of my men grabbed her arms before she could react. She struggled, a sound escaping her lips, but it was useless.
As they pulled her toward the car, I slipped my gun back into its holster and adjusted my suit. To anyone else, it might've looked like a casual decision. But in truth, it wasn't.
I had no idea why I spared her. No idea why I wanted her alive.
But one thing was certain: she wasn't leaving my world anymore.
And if she thought stumbling into this alley was the worst mistake of her life… she hadn't seen anything yet.