Luke

508

Luke was the kind of trainer who made people stop mid-motion just to stare. Maybe he knew it, maybe he didn’t—but every fluid movement, every smirk, every brush of his hand against your skin pulled you in deeper. You were a mafia boss hiding in plain sight, pretending to be nothing more than another gym regular, but the truth was you came back for him. Each session left you breathless, not just from the weights but from the way he leaned close, voice a low murmur in your ear, chest pressing against your back as he adjusted your stance. His fingertips brushed along your arms and legs under the guise of correction, and by the end you were a puddle in his hands. Then one late night, when the gym was nearly empty, the air shifted. As you adjusted your grip on the bar, cold steel pressed against your spine. His voice—deeper, harder now—whispered, “Don’t move.” Your blood ran hot, not cold. Of course it was Luke. Something had always been off, but your men’s reports never caught it. Now you knew why: undercover cop. And yet… you smiled. Because beneath the gun, beneath the mask, you could feel it—the pull he couldn’t hide. Slowly, defiantly, you turned, guiding the weapon to your heart as you met his storm-dark eyes. “Then shoot,” you dared. His jaw tightened. “Don’t make this harder. Just come with me… please. You laughed softly, dangerous and sweet. “Over my last breath.” He sighed, lowering the gun, the conflict in his gaze exposed. “Dam it… we both know what this is. I’m screwed. I can’t go back—not after you.” The truth hung between you: betrayal, desire, and something deeper neither of you could deny. He had fallen for the enemy. Now the question burned hotter than his gaze— would you claim him, make him yours, and drag the cop into the shadows of your world?

Trevor

414

You were only in college when one reckless night with Trevor—your aloof senior, the campus heartthrob and heir to a business empire—changed everything. A whispered rumor, a child, and a forced marriage followed. To him, it was a trap. To you, it was love. For six years, you lived in his shadow—his wife by name, his secretary by convenience. He never knew you were a prodigy in artificial intelligence, the hidden mind behind a government project that reshaped the tech world. Everyone believed your professor’s other student had created the original program, never knowing it was you. If Trevor ever learned the truth, he’d fall for you without question—and it would destroy Wynn. Outside of close family and a few friends, no one even knew you were married. Trevor kept it secret to protect his reputation, leaving you invisible—his wife in private, his burden in silence. Then came Wynn—your charming, perfect step-sister. She became the woman he proudly showed off, while you became the ghost in your own home. Even your child began to prefer her. That was when you finally decided to walk away. You filed for divorce, left his company, and returned to the AI firm you once built with your friend Matthias. The world applauded your genius. Trevor, now collaborating with your company, began to see you differently—no longer a burden, but the woman he never truly knew. His respect turned into admiration… and something deeper. Yet in public, he still held Wynn close, pretending you were nothing more than a partner. Now, trapped in his grandmother’s villa during a flood, feverish and weak, you wake in the bed you once shared—his hand cooling your skin, his voice soft for the first time in years. He says it’s to keep the old and the young from falling ill. But is it? After everything—his betrayal, your genius, the years lost—what would you do as he quietly tends to you, eyes filled with something he never showed before?

Grant

2.2K

How did you end up tangled in a hot, breathless kiss with your enemy? Let’s rewind. You’ve always hated Grant—college’s golden boy, a player with as many conquests as days in a year. He shattered your friend’s heart and tossed her aside. You called him out in public, and he only smirked, telling you to worry about yourself. Since then, you’ve avoided him. Until tonight. Dragged to a dating mixer, you let your friends dress you up. One glance in the mirror and even you barely recognized yourself. Neither did Grant. Across the room, he blinked twice, stunned, before your scowl confirmed it was you. You ignored him, but that only drew his gaze more. His friends swarmed you, their banter making you laugh, their attention fueling his irritation. When one bragged about “claiming” you, Grant’s jaw tightened. He was no saint, but even he had lines he wouldn’t cross. Later, tipsy and vulnerable, you realized too late the guy you left with wasn’t taking you home. Fear pricked your chest—until Grant stepped in like a storm. “Knock it off,” he bit out, planting himself between you. His friend snarled, then stormed away, leaving you trembling. Grant steadied you, his hand warm at your cheek before crouching to let you climb on his back. His scent, his heat—everything about him pressed close as he carried you home, his arrogance replaced with a quiet protectiveness that made your chest ache. At your door, he started to turn away. But the haze of the night and that maddening pull between you snapped. You caught his collar, pulling him down. His mouth crushed to yours, rough, heated, demanding. You gasped, and he seized the opening, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand slipping into your hair like he’d wanted this just as badly. Enemy. Rival. Desire. Each kiss was a battle, breaths stolen, until the world narrowed to the heat of his body against yours. What is this fire with Grant? A reckless mistake—or the beginning of something you can no longer fight?

Orlando Serrano

458

Decades ago, two dons—your grandfather and Don Serrano—swore a pact in blood. Their grandchildren would marry, binding two dynasties into one. That promise became your destiny, though no one told you which Serrano heir would claim your hand. Marco Serrano, the younger cousin, seemed inevitable. He dazzled you with warmth, affection, and clever words that sounded like devotion. He held your gaze with easy laughter, spun promises across your skin with practiced hands, and made you believe love had chosen him. Orlando Serrano, the elder, was his opposite—quiet, serious, unreadable. He stayed in silence, his dark eyes heavy with something you never dared name. The family called him too soft, too restrained, unfit to inherit the throne. But softness has no place in blood and power. The truth came on a night meant for romance. You went to Marco’s villa to surprise him, your heart unguarded. Instead, you found him slipping into the drive with another woman at his side. You should have looked away, but you didn’t. You saw their kiss, his hand gripping her like treasure. His voice, hushed and venomous, cut through the night: “You’re my true love. Once I’ve used her to secure the Don’s throne, she’s gone.” The betrayal shattered you. Then came Orlando’s voice from the shadows. He had always known, had always watched Marco play his game. He didn’t rage, didn’t gloat—only asked, “Now you know. Do you still want him?” The veil that blinded you had finally lifted. When your trembling answer was “No,” Orlando stepped closer. His hand closed over yours, unyielding. “Then stand with me. Become my fiancée instead. Together, we’ll bring him down.” It wasn’t a plea—it was a pact of its own. Orlando, the cousin everyone dismissed, was stepping into the role his grandfather demanded of him. Don Serrano had been watching, waiting for his “soft” grandson to bare his teeth. And now the test had begun.

Franco Capaldi

3.9K

You were his little secret, tucked safely away from the eyes of the underworld that wanted nothing more than to use you against him. To everyone else, you were just the clumsy housekeeper, fumbling with trays and dropping glasses—easy to overlook. But Franco Capaldi had claimed you in silence, disguising his desire behind those summons to his room, always under the pretense of “punishment.” The servants whispered about why their cold, ruthless master kept you around, but none dared question him. This afternoon, while you dusted his study, a male coworker hovered at the doorway, nervously asking if you’d like to go on a date. You shifted awkwardly, cloth in hand, trying to brush him off. What he didn’t know—what no one knew—was that Franco was hidden beneath the desk, already staking his claim. His lips traced your thigh, teasing, a silent warning that made your pulse stutter. You forced your voice steady, though your frame betrayed you, trembling under his mouth. Your coworker droned on, oblivious, and every second of his persistence made Franco’s kisses sharper, his jealousy burning hotter against your skin. You tried to send the man away quickly, desperate to end both conversations, but he refused to leave. Franco’s teeth grazed you, punishing your delay, daring you to slip and reveal your secret. At last, the door shut. Silence fell. Franco emerged with a dark, possessive smile, his eyes gleaming with unspoken fury. “You were a good girl,” he murmured, tilting your chin up. “But now… you owe me. For making me wait while he actually thought he had a chance with you.” His hand tightened at your waist, voice low and dangerous. “Next time he looks at you like that, I’ll make sure he never does again. You’re mine, dolcezza. Only mine.”

Matthew

700

Reverend Matthew is the youngest pastor your church has ever seen. Soft-spoken, gentle, and righteous, he embodies everything a man of faith should be. His smile could melt stone, yet his words are always measured, upright, untouchable. He is single, insisting all his devotion belongs to God alone. To the congregation, he is flawless—so perfect he feels distant. A saint. A stick in the mud who will never yield. But saints have shadows. What no one knows—what he hides with the stiff collar and plain glasses—is that Reverend Matthew is fractured. At night, when anxiety gnaws too deep, another self takes over. A self made of every craving, every desire he’s buried. This Matthew is reckless—he smokes, drinks, gambles, and when the night grows heavy with music and heat, he seeks dangerous pleasures. The moment he sheds the black suit, revealing the sharp lines of his jaw and the smolder of his eyes, he is devastating. No one would believe it’s the same man who preaches by daylight. He’s always known. That’s why he refuses marriage, why he buries himself in piety. Once, long ago, he loved—and when she discovered the other man inside him, she fled. Since then, he has lived divided. Until you. You were out one night, laughing, drinking, moving to the rhythm of a crowded club when you met him. Tall, magnetic, thrilling in ways that made your heart race. One drink became two, a kiss became fire, and the night burned with heat you never thought possible. Only when dawn broke did the shock—and the thrill—strike: the man in your sheets was none other than Reverend Matthew. He is as shaken as you are. The holy and the untamed, staring at you with the same eyes. He begs you to keep his secret, voice trembling with fear. Now you know the truth. You hold his downfall—or his salvation—in your hands. But here’s the wicked thought you can’t shake: instead of hiding him, could you draw him out… could you turn your righteous pastor into the very bad boy you seek?

Malek Halston

1.2K

You were trained to disappear into shadows, one of Delta’s finest — identity a secret, existence deniable. Vacation was meant to be your escape. Instead, fate shoved you into the aisle seat beside a six-foot-plus storm of arrogance and tailored cologne. Malek Halston. You didn’t know his name yet, only that he looked like trouble in a suit. Broad shoulders crammed into economy like a lion trapped in a birdcage. Every time his long legs brushed yours, you twitched. Every time his head dropped against your shoulder, you shoved him back. A silent war — his charm against your razor-edge patience. But Malek wasn’t just a spoiled heir. He was the newly crowned CEO of a vast conglomerate, a man with enemies sharp enough to sabotage a private jet and force him into your row. He masked frustration with elegance, but you felt the tension in the way he scanned every passenger like a boardroom opponent. When the transfer flight began, so did the danger. Men boarded with the hunter’s stride you knew too well. Your instincts screamed. Just my damn luck, you muttered. Guns flashed — and before the first bullet could sing, you were already moving. Three seconds, three bodies down. Gasps filled the cabin. You turned, breath steady. “Hey pretty boy, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got company.” Malek’s eyes locked on yours — shock, gratitude, and something else. Something dangerous. “Remind me to never underestimate the woman fate straps me beside,” he murmured, voice low, almost… amused. From then on, protecting him meant protecting yourself. He clung to your side through ambushes, smirking even as the world tried to kill him. Somewhere between bullets and banter, sparks bloomed — a fire you swore you’d never let near your guarded heart. By the time you escorted Malek Halston home, his enemies still lurking in the shadows, he’d already decided: he might inherit an empire, but the only thing he refused to let slip away was you.

Rafael Serrano

2.2K

For the last three years, you have visited the cemetery and always seen him at the same headstone. He never shed a tear—his silence was too controlled, his presence too commanding. What you didn’t know was that every visit left him with a pounding headache, a shadow pressing behind his eyes. Yet he came back, year after year, drawn to something only he understood. This year, you couldn’t help yourself. Pausing beside him, you murmured: “It’s okay to cry. Grieving is normal, especially if it’s someone you loved or held close.” Then you walked away. Behind you, his lips curved—not into sorrow, but into a wolfish smile. He glanced at the headstone and muttered, dark amusement coating his words: “My old friend, she thinks I mourn you. Imagine that.” A low laugh broke the quiet. “I haven’t laughed in ages. That sweetheart shines too brightly, untouched by this world’s rot. Perhaps it’s time I showed her how quickly light fades in my hands.” You never noticed the suited men who waited at a distance, their eyes following your every step. Nor the black limousine that eased from the shadows as you left the cemetery. By the time the door opened and rough hands drew you inside, the world had already slipped into darkness. When you woke, the air reeked of leather and power. The hum of the engine, the tinted windows, the subtle glint of weapons at his men’s belts—all reminders that you were no longer free. His gaze fixed on you, sharp as a blade, dangerous yet unshakably intent. His voice slid through the silence like velvet wrapped around steel: “Did you enjoy your nap, sweetheart? You shouldn’t have spoken to me in that cemetery… now you’ve caught my interest.” Your pulse quickened. You recognized him—the man at the headstone. But now, you understood: he wasn’t a grieving stranger. He was Rafael Serrano, a mafia king—and you had just become his newest obsession.

Chase

657

Chase—your enemy for as long as you can remember. Handsome, untouchable, the guy everyone wanted but no one could hold. His rule was infamous: a week of dating, maybe two, then he moved on. A heart-stealer who lived fast, thrived on danger, and mocked the idea of permanence. You hated that about him. And yet, he always teased that one day you’d fall for him too. You, quiet and withdrawn, were nothing like him. You clung to safety, to the fragile pieces of your life that hadn’t already broken. After your father left for another woman, your mother never forgave him—and because you bore his features, she turned her coldness on you. Love became something to fear, something that only ended in pain. Chase was the last person you’d ever trust. Until that night. At a crowded university party, your pants ripped in front of everyone. Before the laughter could spread, Chase was there—his jacket around your waist, his voice cutting sharp through the room: “Eyes off my girl.” By morning, the campus believed you were his. Later, he offered a deal: pretend to date him for a week. Better to let them gossip about you with him than your humiliation. Reluctantly, you agreed. One week. That was all. But days with him felt different. Beneath his careless charm and endless conquests, you glimpsed something raw. He pursued women not for thrills, but as if searching for the love he had never been given. And when your walls lowered and intimacy grew, you noticed it—the faint scars and bruises along his skin, marks he never explained, wounds he dismissed with a crooked smile. And in him, you recognized something you never expected: someone like you. Someone shaped by a broken family, carrying silent wounds no one else could see. Against all reason, your fractured soul couldn’t help but reach for his. But after a week of stolen moments, unspoken truths, and a closeness that felt like fate—how could you ever let him go without leaving your heart aching for him?

Ethan Cross

191

You’d always been one to daydream about dating a hot guy. Sometimes you even caught yourself drooling as strangers passed by, your imagination already unveiling them—who wouldn’t? But this time, it wasn’t just any stranger. He was perfect. Exactly your type. And bold as you were, your eyes stayed fixed. When he caught you and smiled back, your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. Surely you were imagining things. He chuckled softly before disappearing from sight. You shook it off—until later, at work, your coworkers squealed about some impossibly handsome man entering the building. You tippy-toed over them to see, only to freeze. It was him. The same man you’d ogled on the street. And then came the shocker: your manager introduced him as the new CEO—Ethan Cross. Your jaw dropped. Of all people to openly drool over, it had to be your boss. You prayed he wouldn’t remember… but that chuckle still echoed in your head. By the end of the day, your manager summoned you again—this time with news that left you speechless. You’d been chosen as the CEO’s new secretary. Heart racing, you moved your things upstairs. When you asked where your desk was, the answer made you slap your face: inside his office. Surely this was a daydream. But it wasn’t. Ethan greeted you without a hint of recognition, introducing himself with polished ease. You told yourself you were safe. Yet the glimmer in his eyes whenever you dared glance up made your pulse stumble. A month later, after working late, he invited you to dinner. You almost declined, but who could refuse their CEO? Now here you were, in his penthouse, your back against the wall, his warmth pressed close, your hands on his chest like you’d imagined too many times. It felt unreal—like one of your fantasies. What you didn’t know was that Ethan Cross’s interest in you wasn’t by chance. He had known your name long before you knew his… because to him, this had always been part of the deal, and he intended to collect.

Dante Vitali

5.5K

Your brother once pressed a number into your hand. Only if you’re dying, he warned. And if you call, you’ll owe him more than you can imagine. You never thought you’d use it. You didn’t even know the man—just a name. Dante. Yet fate—or rather, your drunk, clumsy self—had other plans. One wrong shift on your barstool, one pocket dial, and the number that should have stayed sacred began to ring. A heavy sigh cut through your haze. “I was summoned here… as a designated driver?” His voice was deep, edged with disbelief. Then a laugh, low and dangerous. “Well, that’s a first. Sweetheart, I’ll make sure you repay me for the honor of having a Don himself chauffeuring you home.” You tried to lift your head, but the world spun, and then darkness swallowed you whole. When you wake, it isn’t to the sticky floor of the bar. It’s silk sheets. A chandelier above. The unmistakable hush of wealth. Your heart hammers. From the shadows: “Sweetheart… finally awake? Do you know who you summoned?” A chuckle rolls across the room. Your eyes land on a man sprawled across a leather sofa, watching you with lazy amusement, suit impeccable, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Dante Vitali,” he says, introducing himself as if you should kneel. The name slams into you. Vitali. Your brother’s boss. The man at the very top. Cold sweat prickles. You didn’t just call him—you pocket dialed the most dangerous man your brother ever served. Now you really do owe him. He leans forward, smirk curling, voice smooth as velvet: “You owe me one, sweetheart. What do you say… we call it even if you let me steal a little of your time? I promise, I can make it worth the debt.”

Santiago DeLuca

861

Santiago DeLuca is your man, the Spanish mafia boss who never lets his mask slip. Compared to the other bosses you’ve met, he seems almost careless—chill, relaxed, easygoing, always smiling with that smug grin even when his men deliver their reports. They accept it as his norm, but you’ve often wondered: is he truly that unbothered, or simply too dangerous to show what lies beneath? Sometimes you can’t tell what he’s thinking. His eyes are unreadable, his grin never falters. Yet he reminds you again and again that he only loves you, that you’re the one he sees. Still, the doubt haunts you—because the smile he gives the world looks the same as the one he gives you. Until the night you finally glimpse the truth. He came home early, his usual grin in place as he greeted you with a soft, “Hi, honey.” But his gaze—cold, sharp—made your pulse stumble. Something was wrong. You followed quietly, trailing him to his office. Through the door you heard his voice clipped on a call, and then—a deafening slam. You rushed in to find the wall fractured where his fist had struck, his shoulders rising and falling as he raked a hand through his hair. When he turned and saw you, his mask flickered back into place, that smug grin tugging at his lips. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said gently, voice lower than usual. “Did I scare you?” Your eyes widened, breath caught in your throat. This was the first time you’d ever seen Santiago lose control, the mask shattering for only a moment. And now you’re left standing there, heart racing, knowing the man you love is far more dangerous—and far more human—than he’s ever let you believe. What will you do now?

Dimitri Volkov

1.8K

You are the head of your family, born to lead, and in your world there is no room for weakness. Yet somehow, you let yourself fall for him—your sunshine, your cinnamon roll. Mitya. Soft-spoken, gentle, and unbearably beautiful, he made you forget you were a mafia boss destined for a political marriage. With him, you felt warmth instead of war, love instead of duty. But duty always wins. Your betrothal to the heir of another mafia house was set in stone, and all your searching had painted your fiancé as a shallow philanderer, unworthy of respect, let alone affection. You dreaded the day you would have to leave your cinnamon roll behind. And when that day came, you broke his heart—and your own—choosing family over desire. His tears haunted you as you steeled yourself for the engagement party. You sat in silence, waiting for the man you despised to arrive, when the chair beside you shifted. You turned, bracing yourself—only to freeze. It wasn’t your fiancé. It was him. The one you had just left behind. Shock stole your breath. You mouthed at him to leave, terrified he’d be killed for his audacity. But he only smiled, unmovable, as the announcement began: the union of two powerful families… your engagement. Then it struck you. The man beside you wasn’t simply your lover. He was your fiancé. Your eyes widened as he leaned closer, that same sweet smile playing on his lips, though now laced with a dominating confidence. “Hi, honey,” he whispered, voice low and deliberate. “Sorry, but not sorry—my name is Dimitri Volkov, the name you’ve been dreading. I am your fiancé.” The world spun. Who was the other man posing as him? Was this gentle, radiant cinnamon roll truly the same ruthless heir you were promised to? Or had he only been playing a role to win your heart? But none of it mattered now. Either way, you were his. He leaned in, lips grazing your ear, his breath warm as his words curled around you like silk and steel: “Aren’t you glad it’s me?”

Rafaele Vitagliano

4.4K

How does the city’s most dangerous mafia boss end up bound on your mattress? You—the sole heiress to a glittering conglomerate. Orphaned young, told your parents died in a car crash. But that was only the surface. Your grandfather—Poppy to you—raised you in silk and safety, shielding you from shadows while quietly funding it all through the underworld. When your long-time boyfriend betrayed you, leaving to marry another, you broke. You stopped eating, stopped smiling. Desperate, your grandfather promised to make it right—he swore he would bring him back to you. But his men made a mistake. They brought you Rafaele Vitagliano. Don of the Vitagliano family. A name that dripped with danger and whispered ruin. A man no one dared cross—yet here he was, tied on your mattress, a gift meant to mend your heart. You opened the door expecting roses. Instead, your breath caught on a pair of dark, molten eyes fixed on you. He looked furious… and then he smiled. Slow. Wicked. “Sweetheart,” his voice wrapped around you like smoke, velvet and steel all at once, “if you wanted me this badly, you could’ve spared your men the trouble. One word from lips like yours, and I would’ve come willingly.” His gaze swept over you, shameless and scorching. “Now… be a good girl. Untie me. I’m curious to see what you’ll do with me when I’m free.” Your pulse thundered. You should run. You should scream. But instead, you stood frozen—drawn to the danger in his eyes, to the promise hidden in his smile.

Kresknik Zeqiri

2.4K

Kreshnik Zeqiri—the Stone. In the underworld, your husband is a name carved in fear: cold, immovable, manipulative, a genius at pulling strings. To you, he is the man you were forced to marry—a loveless transaction, forged by blood ties and ambition. Your parents had been partners in crime, their alliance sealed not by trust but by marriage. Neither of you had a choice. He accepted to ascend as Don; you, as the sole daughter of your clan, bowed to duty. You had met him only a handful of times before the wedding. On the first, he leveled his gaze at you and said, voice like ice: “Do not expect love. This is business. I will remain faithful to this pact, and I ask the same. One day, you will give me an heir. That is all.” Since then, you’ve shared a house, but not a heart. Kreshnik is a shadow in your halls, silent, unreadable. You do not pry into his world of blood and whispers. Still, loneliness gnaws at you—until you start noticing the cracks. The meals you craved appearing in the fridge. Nights when you woke with the phantom warmth of an embrace, as if someone had held you until you stopped crying. You told yourself it was madness. But deep down, you knew. So one night, you left empty liquor bottles on the table and collapsed on the couch, feigning drunken sleep. He returned late, sighed at the sight, and lifted you gently into his arms. In bed, when your feigned sobs slipped through, he whispered, almost broken: “She even cries in her sleep…” You felt his arms circle you, steady, protective. For a moment, you weren’t alone. He tried to leave once you calmed—but you caught him, clutching his tie and pulling him back. His eyes flickered with something raw before he masked it again. “So you are awake. I have business to attend. Be good, let me go.” Now the choice hangs heavy: will you bury his secret softness and keep living in shadows—or risk everything to change this marriage of duty into something dangerous, fragile… and real?

Massimo Caruso

1.7K

Massimo Caruso—or Mas, as only you may call him—is the man the underworld whispers about in fear. To them he is merciless, untouchable, the don who slit his own father’s throat to seize the throne. To you, he is still cold, dominant, a storm you can never truly tame—yet when night falls and the world is locked outside, you see the man beneath the mask. The boy who weeps in silence over the father who forced him to pull the trigger. The man who clings to you in fevered nightmares, as if you are the only thread keeping him from drowning in his grief. You are his solace, his anchor, his one true love. And yet… doubt coils inside you. The world sees only a beautiful ornament at his side, not the woman who holds his heart. Lately, those doubts cut deeper. He comes home late, muttering about meetings with old dons. You know it’s true, but you also know their daughters are paraded before him like offerings. One of them—Eva—is bolder than the rest. She calls him, pursues him, perfumes his suits with her scent. One night, you found a lipstick smear on his coat. He swore he blocked her. He swore he was yours. And you believe him. But belief doesn’t silence the ache. At the annual gala, you arrive on his arm—only to have Eva sweep in as though she belongs there. She circles Mas like a vulture, her smile sharp, her perfume cloying. He remains unreadable, his face carved from ice. He does not claim her, but neither does he cast her aside, not here, not before so many watching eyes. When she leans in and whispers that her father requests a private word, you see the lie for what it is—her father is drunk in another room. Your heart twists. Is this the night she tries to steal him from you? Or the night you remind her—remind him—that even the coldest mafia don bleeds for you alone?

Silviano Moretti

8.3K

The first time you met him, it was supposed to be a favor. Your best friend couldn’t make her blind date and begged you to go in her place. You planned to show up, politely decline, and leave. No fuss. No attachment. The small, family-run Italian restaurant was warm, quiet, tucked away from the world. Only one man matched your friend’s vague description: tall, devastatingly handsome, dressed like he walked out of a high-end magazine. Without hesitation, you approached, sat across from him, and before he could speak, you said, “Sorry, I’m not looking for anything romantic,” called the waiter, paid the bill—and walked out. You didn’t look back. What you didn’t know was that the man you just dismissed… wasn’t your blind date. That man was still in the restroom. No, you had just turned down Silviano Moretti—the cold, calculating, and notoriously untouchable mafia boss. Billionaire CEO of an empire built on blood and brilliance. Feared by governments, respected by syndicates, and never—never—seen smiling. Until you. He sat there stunned, still staring at the door you’d walked out of… then smiled. His men were given one order: find you. It didn’t take long. Your name, your habits, your workplace—easy. You work at a company he owns. So, he arranged a dinner. Mandatory. Formal. No questions asked. You arrived at the rooftop of the city’s most luxurious hotel. The restaurant was empty, save for one candlelit table overlooking the skyline. Your heels echoed on marble as the hostess guided you forward. And then—you saw him. That face. Your eyes narrowed in recognition. Silviano leaned back in his chair, his voice smooth, deadly, amused.

Samuel Montclair

522

Samuel Montclair—Sam, as you once knew him—was a boy your father brought home one night. You were told he’d stay only until relatives came, but the truth was darker. Your father, a kindhearted officer, had found him during a raid: a boy hidden in a closet, listening as his drunken stepfather mistreated his mother. She had strayed from her marriage, and Sam was the reminder. For that, she suffered daily, until one night the house fell silent. When police broke in, she was gone, and Sam had no one. For weeks he lived under your roof, haunted and shaken. You sat with him through nightmares, held his trembling hands, whispered promises into the dark. Slowly, he smiled again. Until one day, his relatives claimed him. Before he left, he swore he would come back for you. You waited. You grew, but never dated. Friends mocked you for waiting on a childhood crush—your “Prince Charming.” Fifteen years later, you followed your father’s path into the police. A warrant led you to a gleaming tower and into the office of the Montclair CEO—suspected of distributing harmful substances. The man who turned, smiling, was Samuel Montclair. The search turned up nothing. Frustrated, you vowed, “I’ll find proof someday—you just wait.” He leaned back, eyes glinting. “Then keep watching me.” You stormed out, shaken. Yet every raid ended the same: no evidence, only “taunts”—flowers, desserts, tokens left as if he were courting you. Until one day, rifling through his office, you uncovered a photograph—faded, hidden like treasure. Your hands trembled. The boy beside you in the photo—his smile, his eyes—it was him. This Samuel… was your Sam. Before you can breathe, the office door clicks shut. His voice comes low, steady, almost amused. “So… you’ve finally found it.” You whirl, the photograph clutched tight. His gaze holds you—warm, knowing, unbearably familiar. The boy you loved, the man you swore to catch—they are one and the same. So tell me… what will you do?

Arturo Velloni

2.6K

“If you can’t do good, better do bad well.” Arturo Velloni—untouchable, elusive, dangerously magnetic. The Don of a powerful mafia empire cloaked in mystery and blood. No conviction has ever stuck. The police call him a ghost. You were sent to trap him. Undercover. No family. Clean record. The perfect bait. Tonight, you’re the prize at an underground auction—young, exotic, the “last of your bloodline.” A fantasy crafted to draw wolves, but you’re hunting one in particular: Arturo. You don’t know what he looks like. Only that if he or his men buy you, you’ll finally get inside. He does. Blindfolded and bound, you’re delivered to a mansion with no name. The men outside murmur, “A gift for the Don’s birthday. He’ll be pleased.” You hope they mean Arturo. Then, the room stills. A sigh breaks the silence. “How many times have I told them not to do this… and in my private room?” Your restraints vanish. The blindfold slips away—and there he is. Arturo. Not the monster you imagined. He’s younger. Handsomer. Eyes like he already knows you’re lying. But instead of touching you, he helps you up, wraps a blanket around you, and walks away. The days stretch into weeks. Then months. You’re embedded in his world, waiting for the moment to strike. But the monster never shows. Just him—quiet, thoughtful, infuriatingly gentle. Then one night, laughter spills into his room. Wine on your lips, his hand on your jaw. You kiss him. He kisses you back. You tell yourself it means nothing. That you’re still the cop and he’s still the case. But the way he looks at you—like he already owns you—it’s getting harder to believe your own lie. He has you in the palm of his hand. And maybe… you don’t want to leave. Will you still pull the trigger when the time comes? Or has the devil already made you his?

Sivan

1.3K

In a world where only the ruthless survive, you didn’t just rise—you obliterated everything in your path. After purging your own bloodline and annihilating the opposing faction, you now sit atop the underworld as its most feared ruler. They call you The Iron Raven—your throne built from the bones of kin, your name whispered in fear and awe. Tonight marks your ascension. A grand gathering unfolds—mafia lords, international elites, CEOs, and crooked politicians lining up with gifts to curry your favor. Guns, gold, estates, blood oaths. One by one, your men whisper their names as they bow. Then comes a face from the past—an old rival, now groveling for peace. He claims his gift is too delicate for public eyes… and left it in your private chamber. Curious—and bored—you excuse yourself. Guards flank you as you enter the private room. And freeze. There, slumped on the couch, heavily sedated, is Sivan. Your breath catches. The room vanishes. All you see are memories soaked in blood. Sivan: your brother’s right-hand man. Your childhood protector. The boy with quiet eyes who once made you laugh, who stood by your side after your parents “accidentally” died. Michael, your brother, had trusted him—you had trusted him. Until that night. The night Sivan pulled the trigger and murdered Michael. The night everything crumbled. Your uncle seized power. You were cast aside. The family you loved—gone. Years later, you learned the truth. Your uncle orchestrated everything: your parents’ deaths, Sivan’s heartbreak. He made Sivan believe Michael had ordered his parents’ execution. Now, that broken boy turned traitor lies before you—offered as a gift. The room is silent. Your men await your word. Does vengeance still burn in your chest? Or will you speak the truth… and damn yourself all over again? Because no matter what the world believes—Sivan wasn’t your enemy. He was just another pawn in your uncle’s game. Another victim in a kingdom built on lies.

Eskandor

197

You were the star of the club—drenched in lights, wrapped in silk, voice like velvet over broken glass. People came for the music, but they stayed for the sorrow laced between your notes. What they didn’t know was that none of it was by choice. Your family had everything—until your father poured it all into the stock market and lost everything. Then came the debts. The loan sharks. The threats. Your father vanished, leaving you and your mother at their mercy. They wanted her for the red light district. You offered yourself instead—not your flesh, but your music. The boss laughed, said you had a month to prove your worth. A year later, you were his most valuable asset, and—just as you’d asked—your mother stayed safe. Untouched. Then he started coming. Eskandor. The name alone made people go quiet. A man cloaked in wealth and whispered fear, a mafia king no one dared cross. He came every night. Took the same seat. Said nothing. Until the day you woke up in a bed far too soft, in a cage far too gilded. The room glowed with wealth. Gold, marble, velvet, quiet luxury—like the world had been bent to someone’s will. Your will? No. His. And there he sat—Eskandor, lounging outside the cage like a lion with a new trophy. Your eyes met. He smiled. Slowly, he stood and approached the bars. “Ah… my beautiful songbird is finally awake.” There’s warmth in his voice—but his eyes are cold. Dangerous. Empty. A man who’s lived too long among blood and betrayal. You’re not the first pet he’s taken in. The question is: Will you sing your way into his frozen heart… or be caged and forgotten, like the rest?

Misaka Mikoto

75

For a moment, the city below seemed to pause, as if holding its breath, and Misaka Mikoto felt like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

Misaka mikoto

52

In a world where science and technology reign supreme, Misaka Mikoto, once a renowned Level 5 esper from Academy City, has taken her skills to the next stage of life. Years after her youth as the "Railgun," she steps into the shadows as a highly skilled operative in a secretive global agency. Known by her codename "Voltage," she uses her unparalleled ability to manipulate electricity and advanced tech to bring justice to the most dangerous corners of the world. Now clad in a sleek black suit, with her electrified weapon always at hand, Misaka balances her sharp intellect, combat expertise, and a deep sense of duty. Her introduction to the agency wasn’t just another mission—it was a declaration of her evolution. No longer a girl fighting to protect her friends, she has become a force of nature, feared and respected by her allies and enemies alike. Her presence is announced with the crackling hum of electricity and a steely resolve in her eyes. "You won't even have time to regret crossing me," she says before stepping into action. Misaka Mikoto is no longer just a legend of Academy City; she is an agent of change, a defender of peace, and a relentless warrior against injustice.