Vegas Montclair lounged on the balcony of his penthouse, cigarette dangling from his fingers, eyes scanning the streets below.
The heir of the Montclair mafia,
feared, untouchable, a playboy who'd burned more hearts than he could count. His smirk widened as he lit another cigarette, the smoke curling like a warning in the night air.
"Vegas," a voice called behind him. His younger brother, Macau, appeared from the shadows, irritation written all over his face.
"Can it, kid," Vegas snapped, flicking ash into the night. "Don't ruin my view."
Macau rolled his eyes but stayed silent, knowing better than to argue. Vegas was a storm—brutal, magnetic, and impossible to tame.
Down in the alley, Pete adjusted the strap of his gun, his chest tight with a mixture of anticipation and unease. The bodyguard for the enemy family, Pete had been trained to fight shadows, to anticipate danger, and to survive hell—and tonight, hell had a name: Vegas Montclair.
He'd been briefed. Vegas wasn't just dangerous; he was a legend of cruelty and charm. A man who could crush a life with a word or a smile. Pete had to protect his client, but every instinct screamed that stepping into Vegas' world was stepping into a fire he couldn't control.
And yet, a thrill ran through him. The kind that only danger, and maybe something darker, could give.
Vegas' first move came like lightning. He appeared in the alley without a sound,
and Pete's body went rigid. Vegas' gaze cut through him, sharp, assessing, predatory.
"Well, well," Vegas drawled, voice low and dangerous. "Look what we've got here. Little Pete, standing so proud… guarding your bosses like a good little dog."
Pete's jaw tightened. "I don't scare easily."
Vegas laughed, a rough, intoxicating sound that carried danger and amusement.
"Oh, you should." He stepped closer, heat radiating off him. "But tell me… how does it feel, standing here in my city, knowing I can ruin everything you care about?"
Pete's hand twitched toward his weapon, instincts screaming. But there was something about Vegas—something magnetic, something he couldn't touch without being burned. And damn it, he wanted to be burned.
The first punch came without warning. Vegas moved like liquid, swift and merciless, testing Pete's reflexes. Pete blocked, countered, and suddenly they were in a dance neither wanted to end—a clash of strength, skill, and something darker, hungrier.
"You're tough," Vegas growled, lips dangerously close to Pete's ear as they grappled. "I like that. Makes this interesting."
Pete's breath hitched, heart hammering. He had trained for fights, for danger, for life and death—but not for the pull of a man who could destroy him with a smirk.
"Vegas Montclair," Pete said, voice steady despite the heat rising in his chest. "I'm not yours. I don't belong here."
Vegas grinned, that infamous wicked grin that had toppled so many men before him. "You're mine the second you step into my world, pet." His fingers brushed Pete's chest, a touch electric, teasing, promising pain and pleasure in equal measure.
The fight ended as abruptly as it began—neither truly victorious, both aware of the tension crackling between them. Vegas pulled back, just enough to watch Pete catch his breath, eyes blazing with a mix of defiance and desire.
"You'll regret this," Pete muttered, though he wasn't sure if he meant surviving the night or feeling the heat of Vegas' touch.
Vegas laughed again, tossing his cigarette into the darkness. "Regret? Maybe. But you'll love every second of it."
And with that, he disappeared into the night, leaving Pete standing in the alley, pulse racing, body alive with danger, lust, and something he refused to name.