Rain hammered the streets like bullets, washing the city in a sheen of menace. Neon lights bled across the slick pavement, reds and greens slashing over puddles, turning water into pools of color that looked almost like blood. Elena Russo pulled her coat tighter as she hurried down the back street. She hated cutting through this part of town, but her shift at the café had run late, and the main roads were flooded with traffic and drunk tourists. The alleys were faster. Colder. Quieter. Too quiet.
She should have trusted the silence.
The first gunshot split the air like a whip crack.
Elena froze mid-step. The sound reverberated through the alley walls, sharp enough to slice through her nerves. Her breath hitched. Two more shots followed, then a scream choked off into silence. A door slammed somewhere. A car engine revved, then stilled. And then… nothing.
Her stomach turned to ice. She should have run—common sense screamed at her to get away. But curiosity, stupid and reckless, pushed her forward. She edged toward the corner, pressing herself against the damp brick wall, trying to make herself invisible. Her breath fogged in the air, shallow and uneven. Just look, just a glance, then go.
She leaned forward, just enough to see.
And the world stopped.
Three men stood in the alley. Two were on their knees, hands bound, faces swollen from beatings. Blood streaked their skin, dripping onto the puddles beneath them. Between them stood a man in a black suit, perfectly cut, rain sliding off the shoulders as if even the storm respected him. His shirt collar was open, his dark hair slicked back, his jaw hard as stone. In his hand was a gun, black and gleaming under the flickering streetlight.
The Don.
Elena didn't know his name, but she knew enough. Everyone whispered about him in shadows. The man who owned half the city without ever showing his face in daylight. Dangerous, untouchable, a ghost with power dripping from his fingers. And here he was, flesh and blood, with death at his feet.
The kneeling man begged, voice broken, spitting blood. "Please… it wasn't me, I swear—"
The Don silenced him with a single shot to the forehead. The body collapsed forward, face hitting the water with a sickening splash. The second captive cried out, voice strangled with terror. Elena clamped a hand over her mouth, bile clawing at her throat.
The Don's head turned, his voice calm, lethal. "You stole from my family. And for that…"
The second man sobbed, shaking. "No, no, please! I didn't—"
The gun fired again. The man fell. Two bodies now, lifeless and limp, blood spreading in dark halos across the wet ground.
Elena's knees weakened. Her vision blurred at the edges. She bit down on her knuckles to stop the scream clawing its way up her throat. Get out. Run. Move.
But her body betrayed her, rooted to the spot.
Then, like a blade sliding through the silence, his head tilted.
His eyes—cold, sharp, unblinking—locked onto her hiding place.
Elena's heart stopped. She stumbled backward, breath exploding from her chest. Panic roared through her veins. She turned and ran.
Her boots splashed through puddles, pounding against asphalt. She didn't dare look back, but she heard it—the echo of footsteps, calm, steady, not rushing. Hunting. Following.
"Shit, shit, shit," she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. She cut left, then right, weaving through the maze of alleys. Her lungs burned, her chest screaming for air. She burst onto the main street, neon lights glaring down, horns blaring as cars sped past.
A hand caught her wrist.
She spun, colliding into a chest hard as stone. The impact stole her breath. Her eyes shot upward—and she saw him. Up close, impossibly close. Rain dripped down his sharp cheekbones. His suit clung to his broad frame, immaculate despite the chaos. And in his hand, the gun, casual, as though it were an extension of him.
Her words tumbled out, broken and desperate. "I—I didn't see anything! I swear, I don't—I don't know who you are—"
His gaze pinned her, heavy and merciless. He studied her like she was something fragile in his palm, something he could crush with one twitch of his hand. Then, slowly, his mouth curved—not a smile, not really. An assessment. A choice.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low, smooth as velvet and just as dangerous.
"I'll forget—everything, I promise! I'll never—"
His finger pressed against her lips, silencing her. The touch seared her, intimate and suffocating. "You think I can let you walk away after watching me paint this city in blood?"
Tears welled, hot against the rain on her cheeks. "Please… don't."
For a brutal moment, silence stretched. His eyes burned into hers, unreadable, a storm contained behind dark glass. The weight of death hovered between them. She thought—this is it. He'll kill me here, under the rain, and no one will ever know.
But he didn't move.
Instead, his hand slid lower, cupping her jaw, tilting her face up toward him. His thumb brushed her cheek, deliberate, claiming. "Pretty little thing," he murmured. "What's your name?"
Her voice trembled. "E-Elena."
"Elena," he repeated, savoring it, as though the syllables were a secret meant only for him. His hand lingered, firm, unyielding. "You should be dead right now. And yet…"
The air thickened. The sound of the city faded until there was nothing but his breath mingling with hers, heat in the cold rain.
Boots slapped against the street. His men appeared, shadows with guns, faces hard. "Boss—what do we do with her?"
The Don's eyes never left Elena's. The decision hung, heavy as the storm. His hand flexed, his jaw clenched.
Finally, he slid the gun into his jacket. "Nothing."
One of the men stepped forward, incredulous. "Nothing? She saw everything—"
"She's mine." His words cut sharp, final, snapping through the night like steel against stone.
Elena's breath caught. The words wrapped around her like chains. His. She wanted to scream, to claw herself free, but her body trembled under his hold.
The Don leaned close, lips grazing her ear. His whisper was silk and venom. "Run home, Elena. But understand—once I see you, I never forget. You're mine now."
Shivers raced down her spine as he released her. Her legs staggered into motion, weak but desperate, carrying her blindly into the neon blur of the night. She didn't look back. Couldn't.
But she felt it—the weight of his gaze, heavy and unshakable, searing into her skin even as distance stretched between them.
In the shadows, The Don watched her vanish, rain slicking his suit, eyes dark with something dangerous, something deeper than cruelty.
Not mercy.
Obsession.