Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The walls were too white, like a hospital pretending to be an office. Chance sat slouched in the briefing chair, leg bouncing, a lollipop hanging from his lips in place of a cigarette. Guest 1337 stood at the head of the long steel table, arms folded.

A hologram flickered above the table. Sonno’s tower, glowing blue against a simulated night sky. Then, with a swipe of Guest’s fingers, the image shifted to him. Mafioso.

Chance’s lollipop hit his teeth. “That’s the guy?” he muttered.

“Target is Mafioso, CEO of Sonno. You’ve seen his record. Money laundering, underground trafficking, contracts out on rival execs. But he’s too clean on paper. No traces. We’ve tried every angle—hackers, plants, even blackmail.” Guest said, always calm.

“And I’m the next trick in the deck?” Chance raised a brow. “What, you want me to kill him at his gala?”

“Not yet.” Guest leaned forward slightly. “We want you to seduce him.”

Chance choked on his spit. “What.”

“You’re going undercover. Pose as an investor. Charm him. Earn his trust. Get close enough to access his private servers or bait him into revealing intel. When you’ve got what we need...” A pause. “...you eliminate him.”

Chance blinked. “So... this is a honeypot mission.”

Guest didn’t blink. “Correct.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. “And... not that I’m questioning you, boss, but—are we sure he’s even into guys?”

Guest’s fingers tapped once on the table. “He’s never been seen with anyone. No public records. No partner, no scandals. But he has a habit of lingering when a certain type enters the room.”

Chance squinted. “What type?”

“You.”

Chance turned his head, suspicious. “Me?”

“Confident, young, and arrogant. Pretty enough to underestimate. Dangerous enough to regret it.”

He snorted despite himself. “Flattery. You must be desperate, Guest.”

“Might be. But this is your first seduction mission,” Guest said. “I don’t want you to screw this up.”

“Totally not pressured right now.” Chance muttered, chewing on the stick. “So, what—you just want me to flirt my way into a billionaire’s database?”

“And his bed, if necessary.”

Chance went silent. A beat passed. “...You’re kidding.”

The hologram blinked off. Guest stepped away, their voice echoing as the lights dimmed. “Dress nice. You’re going to a gala.”

—

Chance adjusted the collar of his midnight-blue blazer as he leaned against the bar, swirling the amber liquor in his glass. The room glittered with crystal chandeliers and egos inflated by net worth. Everyone wore their best mask—even if most were invisible.

Across the room, Mafioso laughed at something some silver-haired suit had said. He didn’t laugh like he meant it, though. He laughed like a man who knew how to control a conversation just by the way he tilted his head.

Chance’s earpiece buzzed. “You’re losing your window,” Guest whispered. “Get closer. He leaves at fifteen.”

“I got it,” Chance muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Just waiting for the right moment.”

It came sooner than expected. Mafioso turned, locking eyes with him again.

Chance didn’t look away. He straightened and crossed the room with the casual swagger of someone who didn’t belong there but acted like he owned it anyway.

Mafioso watched him approach with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and intrigue.

“Didn’t think CEOs came this handsome.” Chance said, his tone low and easy, leaning just enough to suggest confidence but not desperation. “Or this bored.”

“And you are?” Mafioso asked, sipping his drink.

“Chance,” he replied, smiling lazily. “New investor. Fresh blood. I heard this gala was the place to meet the big fish.”

Mafioso tilted his head. “You don’t look like an investor.”

Chance’s grin widened. “Then what do I look like?”

There was a pause, Mafioso letting the air thicken between them. “Dangerous,” he said finally. “But charming.”

Bingo. “I could say the same about you, handsome.” Chance replied smoothly. “Are you always generous with your compliments, or am I just special?”

Mafioso chuckled. “That depends. Are you fishing for my attention?”

“Maybe…” Chance said, swirling his drink. “Is it working?”

Mafioso didn’t answer. Instead, he downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass down on a passing tray. His eyes flicked toward a quieter corner of the ballroom. “Walk with me.”

Chance hesitated just long enough to seem coy. “Please, lead the way.”

They moved through the crowd. When they reached the secluded balcony, with only the city lights for company—Mafioso leaned on the railing, fingers loose around a fresh glass. “So, Chance,” he said, his voice a little lower now. “What’s a man like you doing at a place like this? Really?”

Chance stepped closer, enough to be felt. “I’m looking for a new business partner.” he said.

“Or maybe,” Mafioso murmured, “you’re just very good at pretending to be something you’re not.”

For a heartbeat, Chance felt the air catch. But he didn’t flinch. He just smiled. “Guess that depends on how much you’re willing to find out.”

The city lights shimmered below the balcony, a mirror of stars beneath their feet. Mafioso’s gaze hadn’t left Chance’s face in minutes—sharp, assessing, but with a smirk that danced on the edge of invitation. “You’re very interesting.” Mafioso said, swirling his drink lazily. “Not many people keep up with me. Most are too afraid or too boring.”

Chance tilted his head. “Maybe you just needed better company.”

That earned him a quiet laugh. Mafioso pushed off the railing, fixing his cufflinks with a glance over his shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “The real drinks aren’t here.”

Chance blinked. “You’re inviting me to leave your own gala?”

“Only the interesting ones get the afterparty.” Mafioso didn’t wait for a reply, already walking. Chance followed, heart ticking with quiet urgency behind his steady façade.

Guest’s voice crackled in his ear, faint beneath the thrum of blood in his head. “Where are you going?”

Chance whispered once Mafioso was far enough not to hear him. “Progress.”

Then he shut off his earpiece.

—

The bar Mafioso took him to wasn’t a club. It was high-end, private, practically deserted. Dim lighting, dark leather seats, shelves of rare liquor glowing like amber altars. The bartender didn’t speak, just nodded and poured as instructed.

Mafioso ordered something sharp and strong. “Neat,” he added. “Two.”

Chance tried not to fidget as the glass slid toward him. “Fast track, huh?”

“Call it a test.” Mafioso sat across from him, legs crossed, gaze pinned to him. “I want to see if you’re as composed as you look.”

Chance raised the glass to his lips and drank, ignoring the burn in his throat. He was composed—right up until the second glass. Then the third. 

By the fourth, his smile was looser, his cheeks faintly flushed. He wasn’t slurring yet, but his posture gave him away—he was tipping, just slightly, toward intoxicatedness.

Mafioso chuckled. “Lightweight.”

Chance narrowed his eyes. “I’m pacing myself.”

“You failed.”

“Then stop pouring.”

But Mafioso didn’t stop. He leaned in, elbows resting on the table, chin balanced on steepled fingers as he watched Chance sip. “You know, you’ve got a very good liar’s face.” 

Chance smirked, though it wobbled. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Mr. CEO?”

“I would.”

Their drinks sat half-finished, but Chance’s words had already started slipping—less filtered, more teasing, a little louder than usual. “Do you always bring strangers to bars after galas, or am I just the flavor of the month?”

Mafioso’s eyes gleamed. “You’re not a stranger anymore.”

—

The penthouse came next. Chance didn’t remember the ride. One minute he was in the bar; the next, glass walls and marble floors greeted him under dim ambient lighting.

Everything in the place screamed curated luxury—dark stone, deep woods, custom art, silence. It smelled faintly like sandalwood and something sharper underneath.

Chance stumbled slightly as he walked in, catching himself on the side of a black leather couch. “Nice place, man.” he muttered. “Didn’t take you for the quiet type.”

“I’m not.” Mafioso said, locking the door behind them. “But I like silence when I’m deciding if I trust someone.”

Chance turned, leaning against the couch, arms crossed—trying to look sober, or at least like he still had the upper hand. “And where do I fall on that scale?”

Mafioso stepped closer, every movement slow and deliberate. “I’m still deciding.”

They stood there for a moment, the distance between them charged and shrinking by the second.

Then, Mafioso raised a hand—brushing Chance’s bangs away from his forehead, fingers grazing his temple.

Chance’s breath hitched. He didn’t move.

The touch lingered—featherlight, almost possessive. Mafioso’s thumb traced the curve of Chance’s cheekbone, eyes studying him like a puzzle half-solved. “You’re very good at pretending.”

Chance swallowed. “So are you.”

Mafioso’s hand dropped, but he didn’t move away. “If I kissed you right now, would you stop me?”

Chance blinked once—slow, drunker than he should be, but not enough to misread the moment. His voice came out just above a whisper. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

Mafioso leaned in, breath brushing his lips—just a ghost of contact. But he stopped.  Something flickered in his expression.

Then, just like that, he pulled back—barely. The air between them felt carved open. “Good.” Mafioso murmured. “Then we’re still playing the game.”

He turned, walking toward the kitchen, leaving Chance breathless and burning.

—

Chance woke slowly, his brain cotton-stuffed and his limbs heavy under the weight of warmth and fabric. The light bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows was soft and silver, filtered through clouds. For a second, everything was still.

Then he realized he wasn’t alone.

There was an arm around his waist—firm and possessive, fingers resting just above his belt. A second arm was curled loosely around his chest, the press of a body behind him far too close. Warm breath ghosted against his nape in steady intervals. Turns out, Mafioso’s face was buried in the crook of his neck.

Chance froze, staring straight ahead at the sleek headboard. What the hell happened? He racked his brain through the hangover haze. The bar. The drinks. The almost-kiss. Then blackout.

He hadn’t meant to get that drunk. He definitely hadn’t meant to end up in someone else’s bed—especially not his target’s bed.

Mafioso shifted slightly in his sleep, nose nudging against Chance’s skin. A deep, gravelly hum rumbled in his chest. “Mm… warm.”

Chance barely stopped himself from flinching. “You’re awake.”

“Mm. You noticed.” Mafioso’s voice was syrupy with sleep, teasing and lazy. “Didn’t peg you for the cuddly type, Mr. Investor.”

“I’m not.” 

“You sure? You held onto me all night.”

“That was your arm,” he snapped. “You wrapped around me like a boa constrictor.”

Mafioso chuckled into his skin, shamelessly refusing to move. “Must’ve been instinct. You looked cold.”

“I’m not cold now.”

“Then I’ve done my job.”

Chance groaned. “Get off.”

“No.”

“Mafioso—”

“You can call me something less formal, you know. ‘Mafioso’ sounds like you’re trying to insult me and compliment me at the same time.”

Chance rolled his eyes. “What do you want me to call you, boss?”

“I like the sound of that,” Mafioso said, smirking, finally peeling away just enough to let Chance sit up. “Though I admit, hearing you say it in this context is far less interesting than I imagined.”

Chance sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “You're unbearable.”

“And yet, you stayed.”

Chance looked over his shoulder. “I passed out.”

Mafioso sat up behind him, shirtless and unbothered, raking a hand through his mess of black hair. There was no shame and embarrassment in him, just that same cool confidence that made him so damn hard to read.

He watched Chance like a cat might watch a bird—curious, amused, but always dangerous. “Relax,” he said. “You didn’t embarrass yourself. You just drank like a college freshman. I could’ve done anything to you.”

“You didn’t.” Chance said, voice low.

“Of course not.” Mafioso grinned. “I’m a gentleman.”

Chance stared at him for a beat too long. Then stood, brushing imaginary dust from his pants. “I should go.”

“You should shower first.” Mafioso offered, lounging back. “You reek of whiskey and regret.”

Chance didn’t respond, already moving toward the living room in search of his jacket and dignity.

“Hey, Chance,” Mafioso called after him. “Next time,” he said, voice like a hook with silk edges, “if you want to spend the night again… try staying conscious.”

Chance left without answering, but the heat in his ears betrayed him.

—

Forsaken’s outer appearance was corporate perfection—but the deeper one went, the colder it felt. 

Chance stood in front of the desk, arms crossed. His blazer was back on, his tie loose, hair still damp from the fastest shower of his life. A headache throbbing behind his eyes, though he wouldn’t let it show.

Guest 1337 didn’t look up from his tablet at first, this time physically in front of Chance. “You’re late.”

“I was unconscious.” Chance replied dryly. “Technically, that makes me early. I skipped time.”

Guest’s brows didn’t even twitch. “Report.”

Chance exhaled and leaned against the chair across from the desk. “He brought me to a private bar. We drank. I played along. Got him laughing. Got him talking. Then I got drunk, blacked out, and woke up in his bed.”

Now Guest looked up. “Define his bed.”

Chance sighed. “I mean his actual bed. We didn’t do anything.”

“Mm. And you’re certain?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately.” Chance rubbed the side of his face. “He just… held me. All night. Like it was nothing.”

Guest clicked the side of his tablet. “And did he say anything while he was holding you? Any mention of Sonno’s internal structure, trade routes, offshore transactions, black channels, encryption rotations—”

“No. Just called me warm and refused to let go like I was a damn pillow.”

Guest let out a breath—short, clipped. “You’re letting your personal discomfort cloud your memory. Focus. What did you observe?”

Chance gritted his teeth. “He’s interested in me. Curious, at least. He invited me out knowing nothing about my background. That tells me he trusts fast, or he wants something.”

“Or,” Guest said evenly, “he already suspects something and is luring you in.”

Chance stiffened.

Guest continued. “Don’t get complacent just because he smiles pretty and didn’t try to kill you. You’re still an assassin. This isn’t a high school date.”

Chance rolled his eyes, but it didn’t land. The mood in the room was lead-heavy now.

“Your objective remains,” Guest said. “Extract intel. Locate the vault or server infrastructure if he mentions it. If necessary—eliminate the target before Sonno’s expansion.”

Chance’s fingers twitched at his side.

“Understood,” he muttered.

Guest stood then, slow and towering, walking around the desk until he was beside Chance.

“This is your first seduction mission.” he said, tone low. “I signed off on it because I believed you wouldn’t get caught in your own performance.”

Chance looked up. “I won’t.”

“You’d better not. Because if you fail, Forsaken will cut you out like a tumor. You understand that, yes?”

Chance held his stare. “I do.”

Guest studied him for a long moment. Then nodded once. “You’ll see him again soon,” he said, returning to his desk. “Get closer. Stay sharp. And don’t forget who you are.”

—

The sun was beginning to dip beneath the skyline, casting a lazy amber hue over the tops of the glass towers that framed the city. The rooftop café wasn’t crowded—exclusive, quiet, with floral arches and marble tables veined in gold. Chance arrived exactly on time, dressed sharply in charcoal gray, his nerves buried under practiced charm.

Mafioso was already there, seated, sipping from a crystal glass. As always, he looked untouchably polished.But what struck Chance first was the item sitting on the table in front of him. 

A bouquet. Not just any bouquet. A full dozen red roses, carefully wrapped in soft black paper and tied with a crimson ribbon. 

Mafioso stood as Chance approached, and offered him the bouquet with the kind of calm confidence that made it seem completely ordinary. “This is for you.” he said, smiling.

Chance raised an eyebrow. “You give roses to all your potential business partners?”

“No,” Mafioso replied smoothly. “Just the ones I like looking at.”

Chance stared at the bouquet, then back at Mafioso. “What am I supposed to do with these?” he asked, voice laced with dry humor.

“Put them in water,” Mafioso said. “Or don’t. I don’t really care what happens to the flowers.”

Chance didn’t miss the implication behind the words. He accepted the bouquet, glancing down at it just long enough to let the tension stretch. “You’re getting bold.”

“You started it.”

“I got drunk.”

“You let me carry you to my penthouse. You let me touch you.”

“You wrapped around me like a snake.”

“You could’ve pushed me away.”

Chance’s silence said more than anything. Mafioso just grinned, motioning for him to sit.

“So what is this?” Chance asked, taking the seat opposite him. “Some kind of date?”

“Not a date. A… connection meeting.”

“Oh, so we’re networking now?”

“In a way.” Mafioso leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers laced. “I want to know more about you. And not just the investor mask you wear. I want the real you.”

Chance met his gaze, cool and measured. “The real me’s boring.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

A server approached, delivering two drinks without needing to be asked—clearly pre-ordered. Mafioso handed Chance his glass.

Chance took a sip, eyes still on his target.

Mafioso smiled faintly. “You hide it well, but I can tell—there’s something different about you.”

Chance tilted his head. “You’re awfully interested in someone you met in an event.”

“I trust my instincts.” Mafioso said simply. “And my instincts tell me you’re worth the trouble.”

A beat passed. A single breeze danced through the flowers hanging above them.

“Keep talking like that.” Chance murmured, “and you’ll make me think you’re serious.”

Mafioso leaned in just a fraction closer. “Who says I’m not?”

The conversation lingered between them, the quiet buzz of the rooftop fading into background noise.

Chance drummed a finger on the stem of his glass, feigning a casual ease. “You really don’t know how to take things slow, do you?”

Mafioso gave a small shrug, reclining slightly in his chair. “What’s the point of slow, when fast gets results?”

“You say that like you’ve never seen a plan blow up because you rushed it.”

“I’ve had plenty of things blow up. None of them are worth regretting.”

Chance smirked. “Spoken like a man who's used to getting away with everything.”

Mafioso’s gaze was steady. “And spoken like a man who thinks he can read me already.”

Too bold. Chance reined it in. “I just know the type,” he replied smoothly. “Company owners who think charm counts as currency. You’re used to power. So you throw gifts and drinks at people and wait for them to melt.”

“You haven’t melted yet,” Mafioso said, voice smooth.

“Not planning to.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

Chance leaned back, sipping again from his glass. “So what’s this, then? You're trying to wine and dine me?”

Mafioso’s eyes flashed, just a little. “Interesting observation.”

“You invited me out. Gave me flowers. What am I supposed to think?”

“That I like you.” Mafioso replied easily. “Or that I want to see how far you’ll go before your act cracks.”

Chance masked his surprise with a quick laugh. “You think I’m acting?”

“I think you’re good at wearing suits. But not the corporate kind.”

Chance sat up slightly. “And what do you plan to do with that theory?”

“Depends,” Mafioso said, smiling without warmth now. “Are you going to prove me wrong?”

Their drinks were forgotten now. The roses sat on the table like a loaded gun.

Chance held Mafioso’s gaze, calm. “You tell me. You invited me here.”

Mafioso tilted his head. “Would you come back to my penthouse again?”

“That depends on what you’re offering.”

“Just drinks. And more of that conversation you seem so good at pretending to enjoy.”

Chance smiled, slow and sharp. “Then maybe I’ll consider.”

Mafioso leaned forward one last time, lowering his voice so only Chance could hear. “Be careful, Chance. Get too close to me… and you might forget which side you’re playing for.”

Chance replied with a cool, quiet smile. “I never forget.”

—

The elevator opened to the soft glow of pendant lights and the quiet hum of jazz playing through hidden speakers. Mafioso’s penthouse was just as opulent as Chance remembered—sleek black floors, towering glass walls. The city lights below stretched on endlessly, as if the world outside didn’t exist.

Chance stepped inside, bouquet still in one hand. Mafioso had insisted he bring it. “Still surreal,” Chance muttered, eyes scanning the skyline. “Living this high up must mess with your ego.”

Mafioso chuckled from the kitchen, already fixing drinks. “Or it just makes it easier to watch people lie.”

Chance raised an eyebrow. “Are you always this cryptic?”

“Only when I like someone.”

Chance’s expression didn’t shift, but his posture did—just barely. 

Mafioso returned, handing him a drink. Their fingers brushed.

Chance took the glass and glanced at it skeptically. “You’re not trying to get me drunk again, are you?”

Mafioso smirked. “Tempting. But no. I like you sharper.”

They settled onto the black leather couch, the dim lighting wrapping around them like a secret. For a moment, neither spoke. The tension simmered, palpable but restrained.

“Do you ever think about the people you trust?” Mafioso asked suddenly, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Wonder if they’re who they say they are?”

Chance didn’t blink. “All the time.”

“Mm. You strike me as careful.”

“Better than being reckless.”

“You think I’m reckless?”

Chance sipped his drink. “I think you gamble on people too easily.”

“And I think you’re afraid to be touched without a reason.”

The glass in Chance’s hand paused an inch from his lips.

Mafioso didn’t move closer—but he didn’t need to. His presence filled the room like smoke. “You were relaxed in my arms.” he murmured. “Comfortable. That wasn’t just the alcohol.”

“You’re just imagining things.” 

“Maybe.” Mafioso set his drink down. “Maybe I just want to see what happens if I stop imagining.”

He leaned forward, slowly, hand grazing the back of the couch behind Chance’s neck. His lips were close—close enough that Chance could feel the heat of his breath along his cheek.

But he didn’t kiss him. He just lingered there.

Chance’s pulse thudded once in his ears. His fingers twitched—but he didn’t flinch away, and didn’t lean in either. “You like playing with fire.” Chance said quietly.

“I like seeing what burns.”

Then, just as slowly, he pulled back. His smirk returned, lazy and amused. He rose to his feet, walking toward the bar again as if nothing had happened.

Chance exhaled, jaw tight.

—

The night had deepened. The city beyond the glass walls was a sea of twinkling lights and dark silhouettes. Inside, the quiet was heavier—draped with the unsaid.

Chance stood near the window now, arms crossed, staring out. The empty glass rested on the marble counter behind him, forgotten.

Mafioso watched him closely, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “That’s the thing with curiosity. It either gets you answers… or gets you in trouble.”

Chance leaned against the armrest of the couch. “Are you always this dramatic, or is this a special performance?”

“Oh, I perform only for interesting people. “And you… there’s something about you, Chance.”

Chance raised a brow. “Are you trying to profile me?”

“I don’t need to,” Mafioso said. “I can feel it. You’re not here just for drinks. You want something. I don’t know what yet—but I’m willing to find out.”

Chance chuckled, a touch too dry. “You’re paranoid.”

“Am I?” Mafioso stopped in front of him, their height difference subtle but noticeable. “I could’ve had you followed. Asked around. But I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted to see how far you’d come if I just left the door open.”

Chance’s throat bobbed. “And if I walked through with a knife behind my back?”

Mafioso smiled, slow and dangerous. “Then I’d know you didn’t come just for the wine.”

He stepped even closer. His hand reached out—fingers trailing lightly down Chance’s sleeve, a slow drag that lingered too long to be innocent. “I like mysteries. Especially when they wear tailored suits and look like they’ve never let anyone close.”

“You know, I’m not here to be part of your collection.”

Mafioso’s hand slid lower—just to the bend of Chance’s wrist. “You can say you’re here for business. But your pulse says otherwise.”

Chance’s breath caught just slightly. “You’re making assumptions.”

“I’m making observations.” He tilted his head, gaze fixed on Chance. “I let you in.” Mafioso said softly. “Even if I think you’re lying to me.”

Chance stared back, jaw tight. “Why?”

Mafioso leaned in, lips near his ear now. “Because lies are only dangerous if you believe them.”

Chance said nothing. His heart hammered, steady but loud. He still had control. He had to.

Mafioso closed the space. “Go on. Tell me again this is just business.”

“It is.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Before Chance could respond, Mafioso’s hand reached up—fingertips brushing his jawline. 

Chance stiffened. His heart slammed against his ribs.

Mafioso’s voice dropped lower, nearly a whisper. “You’re still wearing that mask. But I can feel it cracking.”

“I don’t crack.” Chance bit back.

“Oh, you do. Not loudly. But here—” His palm grazed the side of Chance’s neck, thumb ghosting just under his ear, “—you tense. Here—” His other hand came to rest gently against Chance’s waist, fingers barely curling, “—you freeze up. And here—” he leaned in, breath teasing Chance’s lips now, “—you hesitate.”

Chance didn't move. His mind screamed at him to retreat. To regain distance. To remember the mission. But his body—his traitorous body—remained rooted.

Mafioso’s mouth hovered millimeters away, never closing the gap. “I could kiss you right now, and you’d let me.”

Chance’s voice was low, trembling with restraint. “That’d be a mistake.”

Mafioso smiled, slow and wicked. “For you… or for me?”

Then, as if satisfied with the chaos he’d stirred, he stepped back—deliberate, calm, in control.

—

The room had gone quiet again, save for the soft whisper of jazz still weaving through the space like a slow burn. Mafioso returned to the bar, retrieving a sleek green bottle from the wine fridge and uncorking it with an elegant twist of his wrist. The sound echoed, sharp and indulgent.

“Red?” he asked over his shoulder.

Chance didn’t answer. He watched instead—watched the way Mafioso moved. Controlled, theatrical, like a man who always knew when people were looking.

Mafioso poured a glass, then a second, but he didn’t hand the second to Chance. Instead, he walked back, wine in one hand, and stopped just in front of him. He looked him over—his sharp collar, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the slight part in his lips. He tilted his head, then smiled. Something wolfish.

“Again, you said you came for business. But business doesn’t sit on my couch looking like that.”

Chance’s brow twitched. “You said you like mysteries.”

“I do,” Mafioso murmured. “Especially when they come wrapped in silk and lies.” 

Then—without a word of warning—he tipped the glass forward. The cold wine spilled over Chance’s chest in a sudden, sharp cascade. Red streaked across his shirt, down his sternum, soaking the fabric in a deep, glistening stain.

Chance gasped softly, jerking back just an inch, but Mafioso caught his wrist. The glass clinked as he set it aside. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Chance hissed.

Mafioso didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were locked on the crimson dripping down Chance’s chest. He leaned in and dragged a finger down the wine-soaked fabric, following the trail. “You look good like this.” he said, voice low and rough now. “Ruined.”

Chance stiffened. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” Mafioso whispered. “But right now? You look like something I want to taste.”

Chance’s heart thudded.

Mafioso leaned in again, closer this time, breath warm on Chance’s jaw as he whispered: “I could tear your little mask off right now… or I could just keep pretending you’re exactly what you say you are.”

Then, without giving Chance a moment to reply, he ran his tongue up the edge of his wine-slick collarbone—slow, obscene, hungry.

Chance’s breath hitched, eyes wide. Every alarm in his mind screamed.

But his body? It burned.

“You need to leave.” Mafioso said suddenly, stepping back with a crooked smile. “Before I really start tasting the rest of you.”

Chance stood there, soaked in wine, breathless, pulse thundering.

Mafioso turned away, cool as ice. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Fresh shirt’s in the closet.” He paused at the bar again, grabbing the poured glass from earlier. “Unless you want to stay ruined.”

—

The door shut with a quiet click, but Chance didn’t move for a moment. He stood still, staring at himself in the mirror. His shirt clung wetly to his chest, stained dark red, the wine already beginning to dry at the edges. It looked like blood. It felt like a warning.

He exhaled shakily and pulled the shirt over his head, wincing at the chill and the stickiness. The fabric landed in the sink with a soft, wet slap. “Son of a bitch.”

The mirror stared back. His skin was flushed—chest rising and falling faster than it should’ve. His hair was slightly disheveled from Mafioso’s earlier touch. And his mouth. Fuck, it still tingled from how close that had gotten.

He gripped the edge of the sink. This was supposed to be a mission.

He was trained for this. Surveillance, manipulation, target execution. He’d been through hellish simulations, studied psychological tactics, seduction theory, mimicry. But nothing in the training covered what to do when your target starts licking wine off your damn collarbone.

Chance turned the faucet on, splashing cold water on his face. “Fuck. I need to pull it together. This guy’s dangerous. He’s suspicious. He’s testing me.”

He dried his face, then opened the door to the attached closet—sure enough, there were fresh clothes. High-end, neatly pressed shirts lined in perfect rows. He pulled one out—a black silk button-up—and paused, hesitating before slipping it on.

It smells like him.

He cursed under his breath, buttoned it anyway, and stared at himself again. 

—

When Chance stepped back into the room, the air felt different.

He’d traded the ruined shirt for sleek black silk, the sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms. His expression was cool again—measured, impassive—but Mafioso wasn’t fooled. He was lounging on the black couch, legs crossed, one hand cradling his wine glass like it was something precious.

He looked up slowly, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “That was fast.” 

“I didn’t feel like dripping all over your place.” Chance replied, keeping his tone even.

Mafioso gestured to him lazily. “That shirt suits you. Better than the white.”

“You mean, better than soaked in wine?”

“Better than pretending you’re not here to be devoured.”

Chance narrowed his eyes. “You really think you’re that irresistible?”

Mafioso tilted his head, smiling wider now. “Not irresistible. But inevitable.”

Chance said nothing. He couldn’t afford to let anything slip—not in his voice, not in his body. He crossed the room and sat down on the far end of the couch, giving distance that felt necessary. 

Still, Mafioso leaned slightly toward him, a predator enjoying the stretch of silence. “I’m starting to think you like this game,” Mafioso murmured. “You could’ve left. But you didn’t.”

“I told you,” Chance said, “I’m here for business.”

“Sure.” Mafioso took a slow sip of wine. “And I’m the Pope.”

He set the glass down. “Here’s the thing, Chance. I don’t know what Forsaken sent you here for. A deal, a merger, a knife in the ribs. Honestly? I’m not sure I care.”

Chance’s eyes flicked toward him, careful. “You think I’m with Forsaken?”

“Oh, I know you are.” Mafioso said casually. “But you’re not just some pencil pusher. You move like someone trained. You flinch like someone who’s been hit before.”

Then Mafioso leaned in again—his voice low, almost gentle. “But I let you in, didn’t I?”

Chance swallowed. “Why?”

Mafioso’s eyes glinted. “Because I want to see what you’ll do next. Will you lie to me again? Will you try to use me? Or will you admit you like being this close to danger?”

Chance’s pulse was a war drum in his throat. But he smirked, leaning back just a little, arms folded. “Or maybe,” he said smoothly, “you’re just bored of being powerful, and I’m the first thing you don’t understand.”

Mafioso stared at him. Then he laughed . “God, you’re good,” he said. “Too good.” He stood up, finishing the last of his wine and setting the glass down with finality. “But even good liars run out of time.”

He walked past Chance, then paused just behind him—close enough for his voice to skate along the back of Chance’s neck. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

And with that, Mafioso disappeared into the hallway, leaving Chance alone on the couch.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors slid open with a sterile chime. Chance stepped into the cool, dimly lit hall, the glass walls of the top floor reflecting the city skyline behind him. The silence of the hour only made his footsteps louder.

Chance walked into Guest's office, back straight, and found the man standing behind his desk, as always—his face unreadable under the cold white fluorescents. Dressed in his usual monochrome suit, Guest looked more like a phantom than a man, his expression eternally blank, his presence somehow heavier than anyone Chance had ever met.

“Report.” 

Chance didn’t sit. “He brought me to his penthouse again.” he said. “Got too close.”

Guest finally glanced up. “Compromised?”

“No,” Chance answered too quickly. “Not yet.”

“But he suspects you’re more than just some liaison.”

“Yeah,” Chance admitted. “But I’m still in. He talks. He flirts. He tries to rattle me.”

“Did it work?”

Chance hesitated, just for a second. “No.”

Guest stared. Then he turned back to the desk, pressing a key. A holo-display flickered to life—blueprints, names, dossiers. Sonno’s security web. “We need entry points,” Guest said coolly. “Internal intel. If he’s letting you into his private space, that’s your route. Don’t waste it.”

Chance nodded once.

“You’ve made progress,” Guest continued. “But don’t forget your role. You’re not there to enjoy yourself. You’re there to bleed that man dry. His plans. His weaknesses. His operation.”

Chance’s jaw tensed. “I know the mission.”

“Next contact, I want access codes. Data. Something we can exploit.”

Chance didn’t move.

Then Guest looked up again—sharper this time, colder. “Don’t let him disarm you, Chance. You’re not his equal. You’re his end.”

A cold silence hung between them.

Chance gave a short nod, his voice low. “Understood.”

—

A knock came at the door. Chance opened it, expecting a courier from the armory or maybe some files from Guest. Instead, Dusekkar stood awkwardly in the doorway, holding a massive bouquet of roses. “…Uh, this came for you.” he said, his voice unsure. “No note. Just your name on the card.”

Chance blinked. He took the bouquet slowly, brows furrowed. The flowers were fresh—too fresh. The scent was heavy. Intoxicating. “Thanks, Dusekkar.” he muttered, closing the door behind him.

He stared at the bouquet like it was a bomb. No name. No signature. Just a thin, black card wedged between the stems.

To Chance.

He plucked the card out. Flipped it. The back was blank. No, not blank—just faint ink, barely visible unless angled against the light. It shimmered faintly.

For the one who smelled better than the wine.

His pulse skipped. This wasn’t just a flirty gift. It meant he knew Chance would see it. That Forsaken wouldn’t stop it. That he could reach into this place without stepping a foot inside.

Chance stared at the flowers for a long moment. He should’ve tossed them. Instead, he set them gently on his desk.

Let himself think about what the hell Mafioso wanted from him… and why he didn’t hate it.

—

Chance unlocked his front door. He’d spent the day doing nothing, as Guest had said to lay low until the next move. So he did. He stepped inside, tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter—

And froze.

The lights were off, but someone had lit a candle on the coffee table. Just enough to cast shadows over the figure sitting casually on his couch, legs crossed, wine glass in hand.

“...You’ve got shitty security for someone so secretive.”

Chance’s blood went cold, but he kept his face smooth. “You broke into my apartment?”

“I let myself in.” Mafioso corrected, raising his glass. “Nice place. You strike me as a man who doesn’t expect to live long.”

Chance didn’t move. “What do you want?”

“I’ve still been thinking.” Mafioso said, rising slowly. His silhouette moved through the dim light like a shadow with weight. “About why someone like you would come sniffing around me.”

He stopped a few feet away. “I have a theory,” he continued. “But that’s not what I’m here for. Not tonight.”

Chance swallowed. His hand hovered near the inside pocket of his coat, where a knife usually waited. Unfortunately for him, he hadn’t brought it tonight. He hadn’t expected company.

“I came because I wanted something.” Mafioso said, stepping closer, circling him now. “A favor.”

Chance turned to keep him in view, but Mafioso moved with ease — like a man who already owned the room. “You’re going to come with me.” he murmured. “Tonight. No questions. No excuses.”

Chance’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t.” Mafioso said, stepping close enough that Chance could feel the heat radiating off him, “I’ll start asking questions you don’t want answered.”

Then he leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of Chance’s ear. “And because you still haven’t asked me to stop.”

Chance stood still, breathing shallowly. Push him away.

Mafioso pulled back, smirking. “I’ll give you five minutes to get dressed,” he said, turning away like it was already decided. “Wear something black. I want you looking dangerous.”

—

It wasn’t listed on any type of map. A sprawling underground hall beneath an abandoned skyscraper. Velvet carpets, gold-dropped ceilings, and chandeliers made from bones and black crystal. Music played softly—classical, warped slightly. The air buzzed with something toxic: money, blood, and something even darker.

Monsters wore suits here, laughed with champagne in hand, and eyes glowed evil behind glittering masks.

Chance adjusted the goat-like half-mask Mafioso had given him in the car. It hid just enough of his face to blur his identity, but not enough to make him feel safe. He stood beside Mafioso, who had one arm slung around his waist casually—as if they’d done this a dozen times.

The crowd parted as Mafioso led him deeper in. Chance could feel the stares—weighted, burning, curious. Predators sizing up a new face.

“He’s new.” 

“Pretty.”

“Mafioso’s pet?”

Some of them stood out too much.

In the corner stood a figure with a hockey mask hiding his face, paired with his dirty tan-gray suit. He held a machete and had a chainsaw strapped to his back.

Another man’s form was twisted with corruption—his right arm a spiked, glowing mass of red binary code, and his exposed spine visible through his back. His left arm, clawed and also glowing, mirrored the decay creeping over his body.

In the shadows, a being with pitch-black skin and a green domino crown stood out. Their entire suit glowed unnaturally bright, casting an unsettling light.

A figure stood with a crooked Void Star crown and half a black tragedy mask. His right side was solid black, but the left was decaying, exposing purple, rotting flesh and a skull, paired with a dark violet suit.

Finally, a being sat on a throne made of living bodies. Four black tentacles curled from their back, and a zipper, shaped like a frown, ran across their face, marking them as cold and imperious.

Every one of them was a threat.

And yet, Mafioso brought him here like it was nothing. They stopped at the edge of the main circle. Mafioso tightened his grip on Chance’s waist. “This,” he said, voice loud enough to be heard over the low music, “is my partner.”

A few guests paused their conversations. Someone chuckled darkly.

Chance felt all eyes on him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. He just stood there and wore the mask like it was part of his face.

Mafioso leaned down, lips barely brushing Chance’s temple. “Don’t talk too much. Don’t look scared. Don’t trust anyone but me.” His voice was low and firm. Protective? Possessive?

Then he straightened up, glass of something expensive in one hand, free hand resting around Chance’s waist. “Enjoy the night,” Mafioso said with a slow smirk. “But remember—it’s not about what they say. It’s what they don’t say that matters.”

—

Chance didn’t drink. He held the glass Mafioso handed him, swirling it every so often to blend in, but he never lifted it to his lips. Alcohol had already failed him once.

Instead, he scanned. The elysium was alive with cruelty dressed in silk. Laughter hung like smoke. Glances cut deeper than daggers. These weren’t ordinary criminals. They were living legends of violence. Some weren’t even confirmed to be real until now.

This is a convergence. Either something massive is coming… or someone is stupid enough to gather the monsters in one room.

He stayed close to Mafioso, who seemed relaxed—too relaxed—but never lost track of anything. His eyes never stopped moving, his casual smirks hiding something colder.

“Do you recognize anyone?” Mafioso asked under his breath as they passed a woman in white leather whose fingers were dyed red to the knuckle.

Chance shook his head. “Should I?”

Mafioso didn’t answer him.

1x1x1x1 twitched near the staircase, with one hand clutching a sword. A single red eye glared beneath a green domino crown, his green suit glowing faintly.

Highly unstable. Avoid.

The corrupted one leaned on a bar cart, swirling something thick and red. His glowing red eye never blinked, limbs twisted. When he smiled at Chance, it was all malice.

Sadist. Dissects for pleasure. Don’t get close.

By a painting of a drowned city stood the silent killer. He didn’t move, just tilted his head as Chance passed.

No warning before he strikes. Watch closely.

On a chaise of living bodies lounged the guy in a storm-grey suit. Black skin. Purple eyes. A frown-shaped zipper for a mouth. His gaze was cool, detached, and dangerous.

Power-hungry. 

The last one drifted beneath the chandelier, crowned with a crooked Void Star and half a tragedy mask. “So this is the infamous plus-one.” he murmured, smooth as silk. “You clean up well, beautiful.”

Chance didn’t smile. “Thanks. He has a taste for strays, I guess.”

The grin widened. “Oh? And what exactly are you, little stray?”

Before Chance could reply, Mafioso stepped in, casual but firm. The room stilled. “That’s enough, Noli.” he said. “He’s mine.”

Noli laughed. “Funny. That’s exactly what you said about the last one.”

Chance held still. 

“The last one couldn’t dance.” Mafioso said coolly. “This one can.”

Noli gave a mock bow. “Then I hope he lives long enough to lead.” He slipped away into the crowd like a knife vanishing into a coat pocket.

Chance exhaled. “Charming guy.”

“They all are. Until they cut your throat.”

As they moved, Mafioso introduced him to no one. Just led him, guided him, let the world see them as a pair without explanation.

And all the while, Mafioso sipped from his drink like none of it mattered. Like this was just another night. “You’re quiet.” he murmured, his voice just below the music. “Second thoughts?”

“I’m observing,” Chance replied, keeping his voice steady. “This place is… something.”

Mafioso chuckled. “You haven’t even seen the basement.”

Chance didn’t ask.

The music slowed. Not just in tempo — in tone. Smooth jazz gave way to something with no clear rhythm, low and crawling, like the heartbeat of something old and buried beneath the marble floors.

Chance noticed it first. The way conversations fell to whispers. The way some men peeled away from the walls and disappeared into a hidden corridor behind the chandelier. One by one, the predators moved.

Mafioso leaned close, his breath brushing against the shell of Chance’s ear. “It’s time.”

“For what?”

Mafioso didn’t answer. He took Chance’s wrist and guided him through the archway veiled by velvet curtains. 

The hallway was colder. Unlit. The polished opulence of the upper floor gave way to bare stone and flickering bulbs that hummed overhead. Chance counted the steps beneath him, every footfall feeling more like a trapdoor.

“Where are we going?”

“To the real event.”

They emerged into a chamber below the ballroom — circular, with a domed ceiling painted in writhing figures. Torches mounted on black iron sconces cast long shadows. In the center was a raised, dark stone platform. Stains marred its surface.

And in the middle of it all stood Noli, addressing the group. “There’s been too much noise lately,” he said, eyes glinting as he swept them across the chamber. “Too many leaks. Too many rats.”

Chance’s jaw tightened beneath the mask.

Mafioso pulled him close, one hand on the small of his back. “You’re safe.” he whispered. “I said you were mine.”

That didn't comfort him. He was a lamb wrapped in fox fur.

Noli pointed toward the wall where a man was chained — blindfolded, bruised, and gagged. “He said something interesting before we cut out his tongue.” Noli mused, tilting his head. “He said someone’s watching us. That Sonno’s being infiltrated.”

Chance’s heart thundered. 

“Cute, isn’t it?” Noli continued, smiling like a shark. “Thinking anyone could infiltrate us.”

They all laughed.

All but one, the man with the hockey mask, who kept his eyes trained on Chance.

Mafioso didn’t laugh either. He just gripped Chance’s waist a little tighter, almost protectively.

And just like that, the tension cracked. Noli waved his hand. “Enough. Let’s feast. Let’s drink. Let’s remind the world we’re the kings beneath their feet.”

The others began to move. The bound man was dragged away. Torches flared brighter.

Mafioso led Chance to the far wall, away from the center chaos, where masked servers delivered drinks and silver trays of things Chance didn’t dare look too long at.

“What is this place?” Chance whispered.

Mafioso looked at him, eyes dark with something unreadable. “It’s where the world ends… and begins again. Only the monsters are invited.”

The room buzzed with the slow crawl of post-event indulgence. Conversations returned to their usual predatory sharpness, but were now laced with something darker. The wine flowed freely, but it tasted less like luxury and more like evil.

Chance stood beside Mafioso, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on his shoulders. They were positioned near the wall, watching as the other men gravitated toward the center, the sounds of low laughter and dangerous murmurs growing. One by one, figures stepped onto the raised platform at the heart of the chamber.

But not everyone was there to relax. 

Mafioso leaned in, voice low. “It’s done. This was the last of the formalities. Tomorrow, things move forward.”

Chance nodded, keeping his face blank, the mask in place. He had nothing to give away yet. His heart still beat too fast, too loud in his chest. The way Mafioso had slipped into this room like he owned it. 

He was a king among monsters. 

And somehow, in all this, Chance had to remain unnoticed.

At the raised platform, Noli gestured toward the center of the room. His hands were slick with something dark, his grin wide and predatory. “It’s time for the final part. We should remind our esteemed guests what happens when you dare to cross us.”

The crowd fell into a hush.

Mafioso’s hand tightened briefly on Chance’s waist, a subtle warning.

Chance’s gaze flickered to the chained figure at the base of the platform — the one who had been blindfolded and gagged earlier. The man was now stripped of his restraints, but his eyes were wide, hollow. His arms were bound again, not to a wall, but to the ground, wrists shackled by cold iron. His breath came in short gasps, desperate, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Noli held a knife up high, the silver reflecting the torchlight. “Remember,” Noli purred, “this is a reminder to all of you. Power is an illusion. No one is untouchable.” 

Chance’s fingers twitched.

Mafioso turned to Chance, his expression unreadable. “Don’t move.” he whispered, his eyes narrowing as he held his gaze on Noli.

The knife descended.

The man at the center of the room let out a strangled cry, muffled by the gag, as the blade bit into flesh. The room reacted in varying degrees. Some of the onlookers cheered, while others watched with detached amusement, too used to the spectacle.

Chance swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He'd seen worse — he’d done worse. But there was something about the cruelty of it all that gnawed at him, deeper than anything he’d experienced in the field. 

As the blood began to pool on the floor, Mafioso’s gaze shifted back to Chance. The look he gave him wasn’t comforting. It was calculating, like he could read Chance’s thoughts through his mask. “You look… unsettled.” Mafioso murmured with a sly smirk.

Chance forced a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine. Just surprised by the show.”

Mafioso’s grin deepened, but his eyes never left Chance’s. “Surprised?” he repeated, his voice a little too smooth. “You think this is something new for me?”

Chance had to bite his lip to keep from saying anything. He didn’t trust his voice right now. 

“Let’s go,” Mafioso said suddenly, his hand tight around Chance’s waist once again. The crowd around them was distracted, absorbed in the spectacle of the sacrifice. Mafioso led him through the room, but his steps were swift and purposeful.

Chance followed, his thoughts still spinning, getting rid of the glass he was holding.

There was no way to prepare for this world. It was chaotic, unpredictable, and dangerous — a far cry from the calculated world of assassins where every move mattered. Here, the rules were malleable, the stakes always shifting.

Mafioso didn’t stop until they reached the farthest corner of the chamber, where the shadows seemed to fold in on themselves.

“Where are we going?” Chance whispered, but he knew the answer before Mafioso spoke.

“Where you should’ve gone earlier.” Mafioso murmured. “Away from the madness. But not too far.”

Mafioso led Chance down a narrow, dimly lit hallway, far removed from the brutal spectacle in the center of the chamber. The sound of muffled laughter and the sickening wet noises from the platform grew distant, replaced by the eerie silence that hung in the air around them. 

He didn’t say anything as they moved deeper. They came to a door at the end of the hallway. It was polished to a deep mahogany sheen. Mafioso pushed it open without hesitation, and they stepped into a private study.

Mafioso shut the door behind them with a soft click. “You look like you need to drink more.” 

Chance’s mouth was dry. He didn’t trust himself to speak yet, so he simply nodded.

Mafioso crossed to the bar in the far corner, his every movement measured, deliberate. The man was a predator, and the longer Chance stayed with him, the more it became clear that he wasn’t just dangerous because of what he could do — it was the way he could control everything around him, the way he commanded attention without lifting a finger.

The glass clinked as Mafioso poured whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. He didn’t ask Chance what he wanted, just poured two glasses, one for himself and one for his “partner.”

He turned back to Chance with a smirk, as though he’d known what the answer would be. “You still haven’t answered me.” Mafioso said, his voice casual, but Chance could hear the weight behind it. “How are you holding up after… all that?”

Chance took the glass, his fingers brushing against Mafioso’s as he did. He raised the glass to his lips, and the whiskey burned down his throat, soothing some of the tension gnawing at his nerves. “I’m fine.” Chance finally replied, his voice steady. “Just wasn’t expecting such a display.”

Mafioso chuckled softly, taking a sip from his own glass. “You should get used to it. This is the world I operate in.”

Chance’s fingers tightened around the glass. “And what about me?” he asked, looking up at Mafioso, keeping his voice level. “What do you want from me?”

Mafioso’s gaze locked onto his. “I want you to stop pretending. I know what you are. What you’re really here for. You’re not fooling anyone, sweetheart.”

The air between them grew thick with tension. Chance’s pulse hammered in his throat, but he kept his face impassive. He didn’t react to Mafioso’s accusation. Not yet.

But Mafioso wasn’t finished. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until there was barely an inch of space between their bodies. His hand rested on the arm of the chair Chance was standing beside.

“I knew you weren’t here for just a job. And I’ll admit — I’m curious. You’ve managed to play your part well, but I’m starting to think you’re not so different from me.”

Chance’s breath hitched. He was used to being in control of the situation, always ahead of the game, always anticipating what came next. But at this moment, Mafioso had the upper hand. 

Before he could gather his thoughts, Mafioso’s fingers brushed against his cheek, the touch almost tender. His gaze never left Chance’s eyes. “You have a choice to make, Chance. You can keep playing your game… or you can stop pretending.”

This is suffocating. Chance could feel the weight of the decision pressing on him, but he didn’t know what Mafioso wanted from him.

“Relax.” Mafioso said, stepping back slightly, his hand slipping from Chance’s cheek.

Mafioso turned toward the fireplace, his back to Chance, and took a long sip of his whiskey. “So, tell me. What did you think of tonight’s little show?”

Chance hesitated, but he couldn’t keep the hint of sarcasm out of his voice. “Charming.” he said dryly. “Very… theatrical.”

Mafioso chuckled, turning back to face him. The intensity in his eyes was gone for now, replaced by that familiar smirk. But the air still crackled with something dangerous. “Well,” Mafioso said, setting his empty glass down on the table, “you’re not wrong.”

He walked toward Chance, slow and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. “But in this world, Chance... you either join the show, or you become part of it.”

Chance knew that he was deeper than he ever intended.

Mafioso’s words lingered in the air like a heavy fog, their meaning hanging between them, unspoken but understood. Chance stood frozen, trying to steady his breathing, but the weight of Mafioso’s gaze on him made it nearly impossible.

Mafioso took a step toward Chance, his movements fluid and graceful, like a predator closing in on its prey. There was no mistaking the intent in his eyes now — it was a fire that burned with dark purpose, and Chance knew that he had crossed some invisible line.

His hand lifted slowly, fingers tracing the edge of Chance’s mask with a deliberate slowness. “You’ve hidden behind that mask long enough.” Mafioso said softly, his voice just above a whisper. His fingers traced the edge of the mask once more, then slid down to Chance’s jawline, his touch sending a shiver down Chance’s spine.

Chance held his breath, his mind racing.

Mafioso’s smirk softened, just for a second. He tugged the mask away, the movement almost too smooth to be casual, and for the first time since they had met, Chance’s face was fully exposed.

Chance’s heart skipped a beat. He felt naked and vulnerable. But the way Mafioso was looking at him, the intensity in his gaze, made him feel like he was the only thing in the room worth noticing.

The space between them was decreasing inch by inch, until the distance between them was no more.

Mafioso didn’t waste another second. His hand moved to the back of Chance’s neck, pulling him closer, and his lips met Chance’s in a kiss that was as forceful as it was consuming. 

Chance’s breath hitched at the sudden intensity, but he didn’t pull away. His body betrayed him, leaning into the kiss as Mafioso’s tongue swept into his mouth with a slow, purposeful exploration. The taste of whiskey lingered on Mafioso’s lips, mixing with the heat of their kiss, and Chance’s mind spun, his pulse thundering in his ears.

For a moment, he forgot everything. He forgot the mission, the lies, the games. It was just him and Mafioso, their bodies pressed together in a whirlwind of tension and desire.

When Mafioso finally pulled away, it was only by a fraction. His forehead rested against Chance’s, his breath heavy and uneven.

The silence between them was thick, almost suffocating. Mafioso’s eyes searched Chance’s, looking for something. “You still want to pretend?” Mafioso asked quietly, his voice barely audible.

Chance’s chest heaved with each breath, his body still humming from the kiss. “I’m not pretending.” Chance said, his voice low, a trace of honesty seeping through.

Mafioso’s lips quivered into a small, knowing smirk. “Still lying, huh? Because I’m not someone you can fool for long.”

Chance didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know where the game ended and where this strange, twisted reality began. 

Mafioso stepped back slightly, giving Chance just enough space to breathe, but the intensity of the moment still hung between them, thick and heavy. “You know what this means, don’t you? You’re mine now.”

Chance’s pulse spiked again, the words sinking in, even though he wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear them. He nodded slowly.

—

The next morning, Chance stood in front of Guest’s desk. His hands were still slightly trembling from the events of last night — the kiss, the closeness, the dangerous allure of Mafioso. 

Guest sat across from him, his presence commanding the room even though he didn’t speak a word. But Chance knew the weight of the silence. He was waiting for a report.

Chance took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he slid the files across the desk. "Mafioso’s suspicions are growing. He’s not blind. He knows something is off. But he hasn’t confronted me directly. Not yet." Chance began, his voice low but steady.

Guest nodded once, almost imperceptibly, as he scanned the files. "And the mission?" he asked, his voice betraying no hint of emotion.

Chance hesitated for a moment. "I... I got the information. I’m close, but..." He trailed off, unsure how to explain the lingering tension in his chest, the strange pull he felt every time he thought about Mafioso.

Guest’s eyes flicked up from the papers, narrowing just slightly. "But what?"

Chance’s heart skipped a beat, and he quickly straightened up. "I got too close. This is dangerous, Guest. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep pretending." The words came out harsher than he intended, a hint of frustration coloring his voice.

Guest was silent for a long moment. Then, he spoke, his tone firm, his voice like steel. "You will finish this, Chance. Do not let your personal feelings interfere with the mission. We will not fail."

Chance clenched his fists at his sides, trying to suppress the anger that threatened to rise. He knew what was at stake, but part of him — the part that had never been tested like this before — was starting to question everything.

"Understood." Chance said through gritted teeth. "I’ll finish it. I won’t let anything get in the way."

Guest didn’t respond, his gaze already back on the papers. He was dismissing him, a signal that the conversation was over. Chance turned, making his way out of the room, his mind racing.

—

The cold air of the morning hit Chance as he stepped out of the building, the weight of the mission pressing down on him. He needed to clear his head. He needed space, even if just for a few moments.

His eyes scanned the street as he walked, trying to keep his pace casual, his body tense but controlled. It was the same route he always took, but today, something felt different. Something felt wrong.

He didn’t hear him at first — Mafioso was always silent, like a shadow. But as Chance passed an alleyway, he froze.

There he was.

Mafioso stood at the far end of the alley, leaning casually against a brick wall, one hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored suit. And his eyes were locked on Chance.

Chance’s heart skipped a beat. His pulse quickened, and his throat tightened.

Mafioso pushed off the wall slowly, his gaze never leaving Chance as he walked toward him, each step deliberate. The distance between them closed in a heartbeat, and suddenly, Mafioso was standing in front of him, close enough that Chance could smell the faint trace of his cologne.

"Leaving already?" 

Chance’s mind raced, the sudden proximity sending a spike of adrenaline through his veins. 

"I was hoping we could talk. But I’m guessing you’re not in the mood."

Chance forced himself to take a step back, trying to steady himself. The last thing he wanted was to be caught off guard, to show weakness in front of Mafioso. 

But that was exactly what Mafioso wanted. He could sense it, that twisted satisfaction in the way Mafioso watched him, like a cat toying with a mouse.

"You shouldn’t be here. You know that."

Mafioso tilted his head slightly, his smirk never fading. "I think you’re the one who doesn’t belong here, Chance. In my world." His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the threat in it was clear. "You think you can play this game with me, but you're not ready for it."

Chance’s breath quickened. "I told you, I’m not interested in games." 

Mafioso’s smile faltered, just for a moment. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch Chance’s shoulder. The warmth of his hand was like fire against Chance’s skin, and it sent a jolt of panic straight through his chest.

Before Chance could think, he spun on his heel, taking off at a fast pace down the street, his feet pounding against the pavement. His body was on autopilot, and his mind was a blur of panic and adrenaline. He could hear Mafioso’s footsteps behind him, but he didn’t dare look back.

"Chance! Slow down!" 

But Chance didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. He didn’t know what was happening anymore — didn’t know if he was running from Mafioso, from the mission, or from himself.

He didn’t stop until he was deep in the city, far from Mafioso’s reach.

—

Chance’s breath was ragged as he darted through the streets, the weight of Mafioso’s eyes still burning in his mind. He tried to get away — away from the twisted game Mafioso was playing, away from the dangerous pull that the man had over him. But as he rounded a corner and slowed his pace, he felt a presence behind him.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first, but when the shadow fell over him, he knew.

Chance didn’t stop. He couldn’t. But the distance was too small. Mafioso was fast, and before Chance could take another step, Mafioso’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the wrist with a firm, almost possessive grip.

“Running again?” 

Chance tried to pull away, but Mafioso’s grip was unyielding. “Let go of me, dammit.”

Mafioso didn’t release him, but he didn’t pull Chance closer either. Instead, he stepped in front of him, blocking his path. 

There was no anger in his eyes. “I’m not angry, Chance.” Mafioso said, his voice low but clear. “I know why you’re doing this.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Chance with a knowing look. 

Chance stiffened, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “You know?”

Mafioso smirked, a dark, amused glint flashing in his eyes. “Of course I know. I’ve known from the start.” He let out a quiet laugh, almost to himself. “Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Chance’s heart skipped a beat. The realization hit him like a brick. Mafioso had known. He had known all along that Chance was just another player in his game. He wasn’t fooled by the charm, the subtle moves, the careful facade Chance had put up.

“I didn’t come here for this.” Chance finally managed to say, his voice hoarse, as if the words themselves were a struggle to get out.

Mafioso raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a knowing smile. “You’re lying again. You’ve been lying since the moment you stepped into my world,” Mafioso continued, his voice low but steady. “And I’m still waiting for you to admit it.”

The tension between them was palpable, so thick that it felt like it could suffocate them both.

He leaned in closer, his face just inches from Chance’s, the heat of his breath mingling with the cold air between them. 

“You’ve been pretending, but I know who you are. And I know what you want. But make no mistake, Chance. You’re mine now. And I’ll let you run all you want. But sooner or later, you’ll come back to me. You always do.”

The words hit Chance harder than any punch could. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“Don’t run from me again.” Mafioso said, his lips almost brushing Chance’s ear. “Because next time, I won’t let you go.”

Before Chance could respond, Mafioso stepped back, his eyes locking with Chance’s one last time. 

With that, Mafioso turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the distance.

Chance stood there, frozen, the weight of everything crashing down on him all at once.

Chapter Text

Chance stood there for a long time, the weight of Mafioso’s words echoing in his mind. He was barely aware of the cold wind biting at his skin, the city bustling around him.

You’re mine now.

The phrase repeated over and over in his head like a drumbeat, relentless and unnerving. Was it just another game? 

Chance gritted his teeth. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. He had a job to do. He had to finish the mission. He couldn’t let this get in the way of the mission.

But Mafioso’s presence lingered like a shadow, always just behind him, always watching. The way he spoke, the way he moved, it was as if he knew exactly how to push every button inside Chance, how to make him feel both powerful and helpless at the same time.

He could feel his pulse still racing, his mind still reeling from the encounter. And yet, despite everything, there was a part of him that wanted to go back. Wanted to chase that pull Mafioso had on him.

But Chance wasn’t a fool. He couldn’t afford to lose himself in this. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down.

Taking a deep breath, Chance pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and began walking, his steps determined as he made his way home.

—

When Chance stepped into his apartment, he froze. The place was dim, the curtains drawn tight, casting long shadows across the room. His mind had been racing ever since the encounter, and now his instincts screamed that something wasn’t right.

He barely had time to process the situation before a voice echoed from the shadows.

“Did you really think I’d let you run?”

Chance spun around, eyes narrowing, adrenaline surging through him as his hand instinctively reached for the weapon hidden beneath his jacket. But he stopped when he saw Mafioso, standing in the middle of the room, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"You followed me here?" Chance’s voice was laced with disbelief. 

“I didn’t follow you. I was already here waiting.”

Chance’s stomach churned. He hadn’t noticed the door open. How did he get in?

“You—” 

Mafioso interrupted him with a slow, deliberate step forward. “You’re running out of places to hide, Chance. But I’ll let you keep pretending, if it makes you feel better.”

Chance instinctively took a step back, his body tense, but Mafioso closed the distance with ease. 

Every step he took made Chance feel smaller, weaker, more exposed. 

“I don’t know why you’re still pretending. You can lie to everyone else, but not to me. I know exactly what you want.”

Before Chance could think, Mafioso’s lips captured him in a searing kiss. The intensity took Chance by surprise, his body stiffening for a second before he gave in to the pull, his own lips responding against Mafioso’s, his heart thudding in his chest.

Mafioso broke the kiss just as quickly as it started, leaving Chance breathless, his mind reeling. But Mafioso wasn’t finished.

With a smirk, Mafioso tilted Chance’s head slightly, and before Chance could even react, Mafioso kissed him again, deeper this time, his lips separating Chance’s apart, sliding his tongue in to explore. 

Chance’s hands gripped the wall behind him for support, his heart pounding against his chest as Mafioso continued to kiss him with a hunger that left him breathless. He tried to pull away, but Mafioso wasn’t having it. 

He leaned in even closer, pinning Chance between his body and the wall, his lips never leaving Chance’s. It was possessive, urgent, as though Mafioso was claiming him and marking him as his own.

For a moment, Chance let himself get lost in it. In the heat of the kiss, in the way Mafioso’s hands cupped his face, the roughness of his touch sent sparks through his body. He could feel the desire building, undeniable and consuming, and for a second, he let himself forget about everything.

But then, Mafioso pulled away again, his lips hovering just inches from Chance’s. His breath was warm against Chance’s face, and his smirk was dangerous.

“You like this, don’t you?” 

Chance’s heart was still racing, his chest heaving as he tried to regain control of his breathing. He glared at Mafioso, fighting the pull to kiss him back, to let himself give in completely. 

“...I’m not some toy you can just play with, asshole.” 

Mafioso’s gaze softened just slightly, but there was still that glint of amusement in his eyes. “Oh, I know. You’re much more than a toy.” He leaned in again, pressing a kiss to Chance’s neck this time, his lips trailing over the sensitive skin, sending a shiver down Chance’s spine.

“Ah…”

There was something about Mafioso’s touch, something about the way he was making Chance feel, that left him confused, wanting more, even as he tried to push it away.

“You’re mine, Chance. Whether you want it or not.”

Chance swallowed hard, his pulse racing. 

With a final lingering kiss to Chance’s jaw, Mafioso stepped back, his eyes still locked on Chance with that dangerous mix of amusement and desire.

“Stop denying me.”

Chance stood there, breathless, his heart pounding, as Mafioso turned and walked out of the apartment, leaving Chance with nothing but the echo of his words and the heat of his kisses lingering on his skin.

—

The next morning, Chance woke up to the sound of his phone buzzing incessantly on the nightstand. His head was throbbing, a dull ache from the wine the night before. He groggily reached out and answered it without even checking the caller ID.

“Chance. Have anything to report?”

Chance groaned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. The memories of the previous night flooded back — Mafioso’s presence, his kiss, the way he’d touched him, how he hadn’t let Chance escape his grasp.

“I’m still processing some information.” Chance muttered, trying to shake off the lingering effect of the night. “But I got the intel. Damn, he’s more into me than I thought.”

“What does that mean?” Guest’s tone was sharp.

“I think he knows,” Chance replied carefully. “He doesn’t know the whole truth, but he has his suspicions. But he’s not angry. He’s playing a game.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line before Guest spoke again. “You’re not there to play games, Chance. Focus on the mission. The intel needs to be gathered. Keep him close, but do not get too attached. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Chance muttered, his mind still caught on to Mafioso's words from last night. “I got it. Just... give me some time.”

“Time is not a luxury. You know what to do.”

The line went dead before Chance could respond. He stared at his phone for a moment, lost in thought, before tossing it back onto the bed. 

Mafioso was becoming a bigger challenge than he expected, and it was making things difficult.

But Chance wasn’t the type to back down. He was trained for this. His feelings didn’t matter. He couldn’t afford distractions. 

—

A few days later, Mafioso reached out again. This time, it was an invitation to a private dinner at one of his favorite spots, an exclusive restaurant with dim lighting and rich, decadent decor that screamed wealth and power.

When Chance arrived, Mafioso was already there, waiting for him. He wore a tailored suit that fit him perfectly. 

“Sweetheart.” Mafioso greeted, standing up from his seat. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Suddenly calling me sweetheart? Yeah?” Chance replied sarcastically, his posture casual, though he could feel the weight of Mafioso’s gaze on him. “I’m sure you have.”

Mafioso’s eyes flicked down to Chance’s lips, and Chance felt the familiar heat rush to his face. He tried to keep it under control, to stay distant, but Mafioso’s presence made it hard to think clearly.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Chance.”

“Oh?” Chance replied, raising an eyebrow. “What about me?”

Mafioso took a step closer, his gaze never leaving Chance’s. “You’ve got a lot of secrets, don’t you?”

Chance’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his cool. “I’m not hiding anything from you.”

Mafioso chuckled softly, almost mockingly. “I’m not so sure about that. You’re a man of many talents, Chance. But I know something’s different with you.”

Chance stood still, his body betraying him as his pulse quickened. He didn’t want to admit how much he enjoyed the way Mafioso was looking at him, the way his fingers grazed his arm lightly as he leaned in.

“Tell me,” Mafioso said, his lips hovering near Chance’s ear. “Do you want this, Chance? Do you want what I’m offering?”

Chance’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel the heat radiating from Mafioso, and the way his fingers lightly traced down his arm sent shivers through his body. His mind screamed for him to stay focused, to remind himself of the mission, but Mafioso was dangerously close now.

Before Chance could answer, Mafioso’s lips were on his, slow and deliberate, kissing him gently at first. Chance’s body responded, finding himself leaning into the kiss, his hands reaching out almost of their own accord, wanting to feel more.

But Mafioso didn’t let it go too far. He pulled away just enough to look Chance in the eye, his lips curling into a smile that was both amused and hungry.

“You like this, don’t you? You can’t resist me.”

Chance’s breath was shallow, his heart racing, but he refused to let Mafioso win so easily. He took a step back, his lips still tingling from the kiss.

“I’m not here for this.” Chance said, his voice strained but firm. “I’m here to do my job.”

Mafioso chuckled darkly, taking a step closer again. “You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you. I think you’re here for me.”

Mafioso motioned toward the table with a subtle gesture, the glint in his eye suggesting he was already several moves ahead in whatever game he was playing.

“Sit. Dinner’s getting cold.”

Chance hesitated for a beat before moving to the opposite side of the table, taking the seat across from Mafioso. 

The waiter appeared almost immediately, lifting the silver cloches to reveal a spread of beautifully plated dishes. Steak seared to perfection, roasted vegetables glistening with oil and herbs, and a fine bottle of wine already uncorked. I

“Eat.” Mafioso said simply, slicing into his steak. 

The dinner carried on in a slow, intoxicating rhythm. Mafioso took his time with each bite, watching Chance with the same intensity he always did. The candlelight caught in his glass as he swirled his wine before sipping it, eyes never leaving Chance’s face.

Halfway through the meal, Mafioso set his utensils down, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin before leaning back in his chair.

“So, do you have a business proposal for me?”

Chance paused mid-bite. Slowly, he set down his fork and met Mafioso’s gaze, guarded. “That’s a hell of a thing to ask over dinner.”

Mafioso’s lips curved into a sly smile. “You said you came here for a job.”

Chance leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Maybe I just like expensive meals.”

“And maybe I don’t believe in coincidences. I don’t mind being seduced, sweetheart. But I want to know—what’s the angle?”

Chance looked down at his glass, weighing the risks. He had to keep him close—but not too close.

“I’m considering my options. And if I were to propose something… you’d be the first to hear it.”

Mafioso chuckled, low and dark. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”

They returned to their meals, but the atmosphere had shifted—thicker now, the tension between them less flirtation and more negotiation.

By the time dessert was finished and the wine was nearly gone, Mafioso set down his glass and stood up, slipping his blazer back over his shoulders. His eyes drifted over Chance slowly.

“You’ve been quieter than usual.”

“Didn’t want to ruin your dinner with my big, secret, totally business agenda.” 

Mafioso stepped closer, eyes locked onto him. “Then let’s talk somewhere more private.”

Chance raised a brow. “More private than this place?”

“You’ve been there before.” Mafioso’s voice dropped half an octave. “You know I keep the good wine upstairs.”

Chance hesitated, eyes narrowing just a bit. “And what exactly are we going up there to talk about?”

Mafioso smiled—slow, knowing. “Whatever you want, Chance. Your secrets. Your business proposals. Or nothing at all.”

Chance’s heart thudded, but he stood anyway. His body moved before his mind could argue.

“...Okay. Sure, I guess.” 

And just like that, Mafioso turned, leading him toward the exit, the city lights painting shadows across his path. The door to the penthouse—familiar and dangerous—waited once more, this time with more weight than before.

—

The elevator chimed softly as it reached the top floor. Chance stepped into Mafioso’s penthouse. Mafioso brought out a bottle of wine, poured some on a glass, and took a slow sip of it. He then tilted his head, studying Chance with a glint in his eyes.

“If you insist on not wanting something to happen, then why do you keep coming back here?”

Chance’s lips parted, but no words came out. He stared at Mafioso, searching for a retort, an excuse, anything—but his mind blanked. He hated how much power this man had over his composure.

“...”

Mafioso stepped closer, his wine glass now forgotten. “Maybe you wanna release some steam? I’d be happy to help with that.”

“Pervert.”

Mafioso chuckled, brushing past Chance just slightly—close enough that their shoulders touched. His voice dropped to a husky murmur.

“Call me whatever you want. The only words you’ll let out are moans when I fuck you.”

Chance’s breath hitched, blood rushing to his ears. Every inch of his skin burned with the tension, with the unspoken war between resistance and desire. But he couldn't—he wouldn’t—fall now.

“...Shut up.” 

But Mafioso only smirked. “Gladly. If you want me to use my mouth for something else instead.”

Chance didn’t move as Mafioso circled him like a predator, that sly smirk never fading. The man’s hands didn’t touch him yet, but the weight of his gaze was heavy, dragging goosebumps down Chance’s arms.

“You insist on saying no,” Mafioso murmured, slipping behind him, “but your body’s always so eager to walk right into me.”

Chance clenched his jaw, but he didn’t pull away—not when Mafioso’s fingers ghosted over the hem of his polo, not when warm breath grazed the nape of his neck.

“You want this. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Chance turned around sharply, gripping Mafioso’s collar and pushing him back against the wall. Their faces were close. He glared at him like he could burn him alive with just his stare.

“Shut up.” 

Mafioso grinned, even as Chance’s hand tightened on his shirt. “You accepted my invitation, sweetheart. You can’t keep pretending you don’t like the way I make you feel.”

He leaned in.

But this time, Chance didn’t stop him.

Their mouths collided, heated and desperate. Mafioso's hands found Chance’s waist, pulling him closer, molding them together like he’d waited too long for this moment.

Every kiss was punishment, every touch retaliation for how fast he was losing control.

They stumbled through the penthouse, locked in each other’s pull. Mafioso’s lips trailed from Chance’s mouth to his jaw, then down his throat, marking every inch like a promise.

Chance gasped when he was pushed against the cool glass of the window, city lights flickering behind him as Mafioso pressed close.

“Ah…”

“You know, I’d make you moan more, sweetheart.”

Mafioso didn’t give Chance a moment to recover. With a fluid motion, he swept him off his feet, strong arms hooking under Chance’s knees and back.

“H-Hey!”

Mafioso effortlessly carried him through the open hallway, smirking like a man who’d already won. “You keep acting surprised, Chance. You’re the one who keeps walking into my arms.”

He kicked open the door to his bedroom, stepped inside, and threw Chance down onto the bed. The sheets gave under his weight, but Chance barely had time to adjust before Mafioso crawled on top of him, one hand pinning his wrists above his head.

Mafioso unbuttoned Chance’s polo all the way, revealing his bare chest, but not stripping it off him yet. “You should see yourself, sweetheart. You look very beautiful right now.”

“I’m not—” Chance started, but Mafioso leaned down and kissed him again—slower now, savoring it. Their mouths moved in sync, hot and lingering, tasting every bit of each other.

Mafioso’s lips trailed downward, skimming Chance’s jaw, then his neck. He kissed just below his ear, letting his breath fan over sensitive skin before biting gently.

Chance’s breath hitched, a shiver running down his spine.

“That’s it, beautiful. Don’t fight it.”

He moved lower, kissing along the curve of Chance’s throat, taking his time, dragging lips and tongue across every vulnerable inch. Chance arched slightly, his chest rising with every breath he struggled to hold in.

Then Mafioso’s mouth found the line of his collarbone, then lower. Each kiss to his chest was deliberate, slow, calculated. He circled his tongue around Chance’s left nipple, then pressed his mouth to it, and he eventually started nibbling and sucking on it.

Chance could feel the other man’s teeth grazing his nipple. His eyes fluttered closed, lips parting in a soft exhale. His fingers clenched the sheets above his head.

“Still wanna pretend you don’t want this?” 

Chance didn’t answer. He laid beneath the other man, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in a quiet rhythm. His lips were parted, breath shallow, as Mafioso’s mouth moved over his skin with reverent patience.

The teasing touch slowed. Mafioso’s hand loosened its grip around Chance’s wrists, sliding down to cradle his jaw gently. He hovered there, eyes locked with Chance’s now-open ones, searching for something—permission, maybe.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“...I don’t want you to.”

Mafioso’s expression softened for just a second—something vulnerable flashing in his eyes—then it was gone, replaced by lust again.

“Good.”

He leaned in, and this time the kiss was deeper. Their mouths moved, tongues tangling, and breaths shared.  Chance melted into it, with both his hands gripping Mafioso’s arms as if to ground himself.

“Let me take off the rest of your clothes.” 

“…Okay.”

Mafioso worked through his clothing slowly. He started with his polo, with his pants, then eventually took off his underwear, rendering Chance fully naked. Every inch of revealed skin was met with reverent eyes.

“You’re beautiful, sweetheart.”

Chance’s face burned, looking away. “Stop calling me beautiful, I swear—”

His protest dissolved as Mafioso’s mouth met him in a silencing kiss. Chance’s breath caught, fingers tightening reflexively around the sheets beneath him. When the kiss broke, his lips were parted, eyes half-lidded, mind foggy.

“Shh. You don’t need to deny it.”

Then Mafioso dropped lower. His lips moved to Chance’s chest again, trailing soft kisses down the line of his torso. 

And when he reached Chance’s stomach, he lingered.

Chance’s hand twitched, brushing against Mafioso’s shoulder. His breath came uneven now, heart hammering too fast in his chest.

Mafioso's lips ghosted over Chance’s stomach, lingering at the curve of his waist, right where skin turned soft and sensitive. Chance had gone quiet beneath him—his hands fisting the sheets, legs slightly tense, unsure of what to expect next. Every brush of Mafioso’s mouth sent a new kind of heat through his body, strange and overwhelming.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not—” 

Mafioso smiled against his skin, then pressed a slow kiss just below his navel. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I like hearing how you feel.”

Chance didn’t respond. He only nodded slightly, heart pounding against his ribs.

Mafioso took his time, kissing lower, hands settling at Chance’s thighs to ease them apart with a firm but careful grip. He kept eye contact as he moved between them, watching every flutter of lashes, every twitch of breath. 

His fingers traced idle circles on Chance’s inner thigh. 

“Have you ever been touched like this before?”

Chance hesitated, then shook his head. He could feel his cock fully harden in the cold air, twitching in anticipation, and waiting for contact.

“Good.” Mafioso kissed the inside of his thigh, too many times to count. “Then I get to be your first in this, too.”

Chance’s fingers twisted tighter into the sheets. He was already flushed to the tips of his ears, skin burning from anticipation and nerves. 

Suddenly, Mafioso leaned in and finally took his cock into his mouth, warm and slow.

“Mmmh…ah, fuck!” Chance cried out. His whole body jolted—hips trying to rise instinctively, only for Mafioso’s hands to hold him down with gentle pressure. 

Mafioso stopped for a second, taking the assassin’s cock out of his mouth. “Easy. You feel good. That’s great, sweetheart.”

It was unlike anything Chance had ever imagined.

Not that Chance received a blowjob before.

“Fuck! Please, deeper…”

Mafioso bobbed his head up and down, moving his tongue. One of his hands traced up to rest on Chance’s stomach, feeling how his muscles tensed and fluttered. 

“Ah… wait—please…fuck!” Chance groaned out, barely able to form the syllables.

But Mafioso didn’t stop. He just looked up at him, mouth still wrapped around him.

Chance’s head tipped back into the pillows, breath coming in short, helpless gasps. He’d never felt like this before—never been unraveled by someone else’s hands and mouth and care. His chest rose sharply, his fingers reaching out blindly until they found Mafioso’s hair, tangling there.

“Ah, I—I’m gonna…” 

Mafioso didn’t pull away. If anything, he hummed low in his throat, the vibration tipping Chance over the edge with a sharp cry. 

“Fuck! Ah, shit…”

He came hard, cock cumming inside Mafioso’s mouth, swallowing all of his semen. Chance’s body arched before going limp, and every thought was dissolved.

Maybe the eye contact made him cum. “...Wait a minute, please—ah!”

Mafioso suddenly lifted his legs in the air, exposing his asshole into the air as well. “W-what are you doing?” 

“Let me pleasure you more, beautiful.” 

That was all Mafioso said before he sat up and inserted his tongue into Chance’s hole, making the other man cry out. Chance’s own hands now gripped the sheets of the bed.

“Hnngh, fuck…ah…”

“You’re so delicious. I can’t wait to devour you, you know?”

“...Please…”

Mafioso obliged with his request. His tongue continued to fuck his hole, sending waves of pleasure into Chance. All his sensitive nerves were being abused into oblivion.

“Oh, shit…ah…it feels so good…” 

The other man didn’t stop what he was doing. Instead, he continued to abuse Chance’s hole, stretching it, eventually replacing his tongue with a finger, slowly easing into him. This caused Chance to whine in discomfort.

Chance let out an exhale. “Ah…a finger...”

“I’ll make it as painless as possible for you, sweetheart.”

Mafioso continued to ease a finger into Chance, thrusting in and out in a slow motion to make it less painful for the other man. Chance closed his eyes, feeling the new sensation slowly change into pleasure.

Mafioso looked at him with dark eyes. “You know why I’m stretching your hole? Cause my cock will abuse it later, sweetheart.”

Chance moaned first as a reply. The pleasure was slowly building into him. “D-don’t word it like that, please…”

The dirty talk was slightly arousing him further, his cock leaking of precum, twitching in the cold air.

Mafioso chuckled. “Or else what? You’ll cum?”

“Ah… n-no…but, if you keep talking like that—”

“Do you like it when I talk to you in a vulgar way?”

“Maf, please…”

“Finally a nickname from you. Just lay down and be pretty for me, sweetheart.” Mafioso placed a short kiss on Chance’s lips. “Just let me know if it hurts or anything.”

Chance blinked at him, head clouded with lust. “...It doesn’t really hurt. You…can add more. I can take it.”

“Alright.”

And so Mafioso did. He eased another finger inside, stretching Chance further. Eventually a third, in which Chance is left moaning, whimpering, and panting loudly.

He was also thrusting his hips against Mafioso’s fingers, signaling the pleasure he was feeling. “More…please, it feels good, please…”

The assassin was losing himself to ecstasy. The pleasure was taking him to the finish line. His prostate was being abused at this point. Chance was crying out for his climax. “Hnngh—fuck! I think I’m gonna cum again—ah, shit...”

The room was filled with Chance’s moans and whimpers. 

A whisper from Mafioso. “Cum for me again, beautiful.”

And so Chance did. His closed eyes, shedding tears, hips thrusted into the air, as he spurted cum all over his stomach, his dick cumming untouched. “FUCK! Ah, fuck…oh–anghh!”

His vulgar noises were eventually silenced by Mafioso kissing his lips. 

After his climax calmed down, Mafioso pulled out his fingers, still coated with Chance’s juices, and licked all three, wrapping his mouth around them.

Chance blushed at the sight.

“Delicious. Now that you had your fun, I want to have mine. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll never want another man’s cock inside you.” Mafioso growled against his ear.

Chance couldn’t reply. Couldn’t protest. Not when lust has taken over. Not when his cock was still hard, standing proud, waiting for friction, contact, anything to feel the climax again.

“All you have to do is make all your sweet noises for me. I’m going to ruin you so good, you won’t even think about anyone else.”

Mafioso got on top of him, undoing his own tie while sitting on Chance’s legs, pinning him down, fully in control. His very movement was slow, a reminder of who was in charge. His grip on Chance’s hips was firm, keeping him in place, even as Chance writhed beneath him, impatient and flushed with need.

“Please…put it in… I want you.”

Mafioso’s eyes darkened. “Say it again.”

Chance blinked up at him, heat licking up his spine. “I want you.” he repeated, voice shakier this time, desperate. “Please—put it in.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Mafioso’s mouth, but his gaze remained locked on Chance’s, tying both his wrists with the tie.

He leaned in, lips brushing Chance’s ear as he whispered. “You’ll take every inch of me.”

Mafioso eventually took all of what he was wearing off, rendering him fully naked. His large cock stood proudly, waiting for a hole to insert into.

Chance’s eyes widened at the sight of the other man’s member. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes instinctively dropping and widening. 

Fuck. It’s fucking huge.

Mafioso smirked at the other man’s reaction to his cock. “You begged for this.” Mafioso growled, his voice low and rough, lips brushing just behind Chance’s ear. His grip tightened around Chance’s bound wrists, the tie digging slightly into his skin — a reminder of who was in control. 

“You’re really mine now.” Mafioso dragged his mouth down the side of Chance’s throat, teeth grazing skin just enough to leave a mark. “And I’m going to make damn sure you don’t forget it.”

Chance’s breathing turned ragged, his eyes squeezed shut as he arched into the touch, chasing it, craving more.

“Say it,” Mafioso said against his neck. “Say who you belong to.”

It took a second, not out of hesitation, but from the overwhelming force of everything he was feeling.

“...I belong to you. I’m yours.”

A dark, satisfied sound rumbled from Mafioso. “Good.”

He pulled back just enough to look down at Chance — flushed, panting, undone.

“Now take everything I give you.”

Mafioso lined his cock up Chance’s hole, slowly inserting his girth inside the tight warmth. 

Once his head was inside, Mafioso groaned at the tightness welcoming him, burying his face on Chance’s neck. “Fuck… you’re so fucking tight.”

Chance gasped in pleasure and in pain, trembling under him, his voice breathless. “Ah….I… I—god—shit…”

Mafioso grinned against his neck. “Look at you now,” he murmured, biting back a groan as he fully buried his cock inside Chance deeper, but slowly. “You said no, tried to fight me off—and now you’re begging for it.”

Chance could barely think. His hands squeezed themselves together, nails digging in. He couldn’t hide the way his body responded, the raw need that had overtaken him. The cock that was inside him was stretching everything he had. 

“You feel that?” Mafioso whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. “The way I fit so perfectly inside you? Like this was always meant to happen.”

Chance moaned softly, overwhelmed by the lust, the stretch, the dizzying rhythm of it all.

“You’re shaking.” Mafioso said, gentler now. “But you’re taking it so well. So beautifully.” 

He reached to cradle Chance’s face. “You were a virgin… but look at you. You’re handling me like you were made for this. Does my cock please you that much?”

Chance couldn’t speak—could only nod, breathing shallow as the intensity surged again.

“You want my cock so bad, don’t you?”

Mafioso started moving in and out of him, feeling the tightness of the other man still taking effect.

“Y-yes, please…”

Chance’s hands were useless as they were tied together, but were still so desperate to cling to the other man.

“Let me do more than that.” 

Mafioso thrust into Chance hard and fast, no mercy in his movements. A raw, desperate moan tore from Chance’s lips as his eyes snapped open, wide and helpless under the weight of Mafioso’s ruthless claim.

At some point, his cock was reaching Chance’s prostate. “Fuck! God…more…shit…”

Chance’s breath broke into desperate whimpers and ragged pants, his body trembling with each merciless thrust. His own cock bounced with a stubborn ache, exposed and vulnerable beneath Mafioso’s unforgiving pace. 

The harsh smack of skin against skin filled the room.

Mafioso’s eyes darkened as he tightened his grip on Chance’s hips, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “Good. Those sounds are mine.” 

The possessiveness in his tone sent a shiver down Chance’s spine, mingling with the heat pooling between them. Every breath Chance drew, every quiet moan he made, was a reminder of the control Mafioso held—not just over his body, but over everything he was willing to give. 

The air thickened with tension, and Mafioso leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming, making it clear that surrender was demanded.

“No one else will ever touch you like this.”

Mafioso’s merciless thrusts quickened, each one pushing Chance closer to the edge. The other man around him clenched with every movement, driving a desperate ache deep inside. 

Chance’s breath hitched violently as Mafioso drove him closer to the edge. Heat and need twisted together, until something inside him snapped. A ragged cry tore from Chance’s throat, mingling with tears that slipped unbidden down his cheeks—pure, aching release pouring from deep within.

His body trembled uncontrollably, muscles clenching around Mafioso as waves of pleasure crashed over him in fierce, shattering bursts. Chance’s cock spurted semen, once again making a mess on his stomach.

“Fuck,” Mafioso growled, voice rough and possessive. “I’m going to ruin you.”

With a brutal, desperate thrust, Mafioso’s body tensed, hips jerking as he spilled himself deep inside, refusing to let go, growling while doing so. He stayed buried in Chance, claiming him utterly, marking him with the weight of his release. 

“Fuck! Ah…fuck. Shit!”

Mafioso’s voice was low and rough, dripping with satisfaction as he looked down at Chance. “Look at you—completely fucked up. Your cock’s leaking and still pulsing, your hole stretched wide, and your face… wrecked.” He smirked cruelly, fingers trailing possessively over Chance’s skin. “Tell me—were you really a virgin before all this?”

Chance’s breath hitched, cheeks burning at the blunt question, but beneath it all, a spark of something fierce and unashamed glimmered in his eyes.

Mafioso’s lips curled into a dangerous smile as his fingers traced lazy, tormenting circles over Chance’s heated skin. “You’re not going anywhere just yet,” he murmured, voice thick with intent. “I’m going to push you so far—overstimulate every nerve until you’re begging for mercy and don’t know what’s real anymore.”

He leaned down, his breath hot against Chance’s ear. “You think you can handle that? Because I’m not done with you—not by a long shot.”

Chance’s pulse thundered in his ears, a mix of fear and desire swirling in his gaze. Mafioso’s control was absolute, and somehow, that only made him crave it more.

Without another word, Mafioso shifted his weight, pressing Chance firmly beneath him, finally untying his hands. He lifted the assassin’s legs up, spreading them wide open. 

Chance let out a sharp gasp, his eyes wide at the sudden shift in control, breath catching as he braced for what was to come next. His hole was still stuffed with the other man’s cock, still twitching, still pulsating for release. 

Mafioso’s body pinned Chance’s, the heat of their skin an electric current against the cold hardness of the bed.

“Let’s try a different position. I bet you’ll like it.” 

He angled himself deeper, cock thrusting inside Chance, making the assassin moan again.

It was just too much to handle. This pleasure...

Chance, with his hands free, started clinging to Mafioso’s back, leaving scratch marks on it, and his legs hugged Mafioso’s waist. The intensity of the pleasure was just too much. The other man’s member was hitting his prostate continuously, abusing it, making Chance moan with each thrust, his eyes shedding tears of ecstasy.

“Fuck! Fuck! Shit—ah! Please, please… please….”

Mafioso growled in his throat, nipping at the soft skin. “You really like being broken into.”

The intensity of the position left Chance gasping, completely pinned beneath Mafioso’s unrelenting presence. Every shift, every press of their bodies drove home the reality—he was entirely at Mafioso’s mercy, caught in a moment of raw surrender and overwhelming heat.

Mafioso suddenly stopped thrusting. “Your cock looks like it needs some touch. Let me stroke you then…”

Then he continued thrusting in and out, while using one hand to stroke Chance’s cock, and the other hand went to Chance’s throat, gripping but not choking him.

“You don’t get to act like this means nothing. Not when you’re clinging to me like this.”

Chance barely managed to whisper out a reply. “...Fuck you! Ah, fuck…”

“You are.” 

Mafioso snapped. He continued to drive his hips forward, sharp and deep.

Chance’s cry was echoing across the whole room, maybe the whole penthouse even. His fingers started fisting the fabric beside his head. Each thrust after that came brutal and purposeful, pounding the words out of him. The headboard creaked under the force.

“Fuck… shit… you’re fucking breaking me, please…”

“Look at me.” Mafioso snarled.

Chance’s head snapped back as Mafioso’s grip tightened—not cutting off air, just controlling it. His other hand now dug into Chance’s hip, holding him down.

“You’re mine when you’re like this. Say it.”

Chance bared his teeth. “Go to hell.”

Mafioso laughed darkly. “Already there.”

And still, he kept going—pushing Chance past pride and past defiance, until the assassin was trembling beneath him, breath hitching, skin flushed and marked. Their bodies collided in raw friction, sweat-slick and unfiltered. 

This is possession. And Chance hated how much he craved it.

He came undone with Mafioso’s name on his lips—choked, broken, raw. 

“Maf… please…” 

Mafioso followed moments later, teeth sinking into Chance’s shoulder as he spilled inside him again, a low groan vibrating against his skin. “...Fuck! You feel so good, shit…”

After climaxing, Mafioso growled low in his throat, gripping Chance’s hips with iron strength, now with both hands, eventually pulling out, cock still standing proud. 

“Get on top. Ride me.” 

Chance hesitated just a breath before sliding down to straddle Mafioso’s hips, feeling the hard length pressing up against his ass. He grabbed the other man’s cock, and slowly slid it inside him, feeling full again.

“Ah…”

Mafioso’s hands tightened around Chance’s waist, anchoring him firmly as Chance began to move, slow and deliberate at first, then faster, matching the rough rhythm in Mafioso’s grip.

“Good. Ride me like you want to own me.”

“Fuck… hngh, shit….please!” Chance cried out, closing his eyes and continued feeling his cock bouncing pathetically. 

Mafioso was relentless in his thrusts, giving no mercy to his pace. Every time it hit Chance, it was almost always hitting his prostate. He growled, controlling the assassin’s hips. 

Nevertheless, their bodies moved in sync — hips grinding, breaths ragged, skin slick with sweat, pushing Chance to the edge once more.

Chance came again, crying, screaming, anything to let the pleasure be heard. The feeling of being filled up was always great.

—

The hot water poured over them, steam swirling thick as Mafioso pressed Chance against the cool tile wall. His hands were ruthless, gripping Chance’s hips and dragging him flush against his body, skin slick and glistening under the spray.

Mafioso’s mouth found Chance’s neck, biting and sucking with fierce intent, marking him in places no one else would see. Chance’s breath hitched, knees weakening under the relentless heat and possession radiating from Mafioso’s every touch.

“Your hole is amazing.”

“Please…”

His hands roamed, exploring every inch, the water mixing with sweat and whispered moans. Mafioso shifted behind him, sliding inside his hole with a brutal, possessive thrust that left Chance gasping, pressed tight against the wall and the unyielding force driving him forward.

“Ah, shit…”

Every thrust of Mafioso was hard, possessive, and deep. 

“Tell me to break you.”

Chance’s voice broke under the weight of pleasure and desire, tears mixing with the water. 

“Break me, please… fuck! Please, please, please…”

“Good.” Mafioso growled, voice dark and possessive as he continued his assault inside Chance, the hot water mixing with their ragged breaths and desperate moans.

Chance clung to him against the unforgiving wall. 

Mafioso’s hands roamed possessively—one tangled in Chance’s hair, the other gripping his thigh—pulling him closer with every brutal thrust.

“...Fuck me more, please…”

The two moved together in a wild rhythm, the shower echoing with the sound of skin slapping skin, breathless gasps, and whispered confessions lost in the rush of water and heat.

“Fuck! Shit, shit, shit… I’m gonna—” 

Eventually, Chance lost every sense, his cock cumming pathetically, spurting into the bathroom floor. “Ah, fuck…” He said, closing his eyes and resting his head on Mafioso’s shoulder.

Mafioso growled, once again spilling inside Chance, stuffing the other man with his cum. “Fuck! You’re squeezing me so fucking tight…”

After the intense moment, they just stared at each other. Mafioso refused to pull out.

“...Your hole’s perfect for my cock, sweetheart.”

Chance was left dazed because of the fullness. “Cock…. more…”

“Insatiable, aren’t we?”

Chapter Text

Guest stood by the window of his office, overlooking the city skyline with a steely gaze. Behind him, Shedletsky waited for his command.

Without turning around, Guest finally broke the silence. “Chance has performed exceptionally well.”

Shedletsky nodded. “Yeah, he has indeed. My best friend retracted half the critical files without alerting Mafioso or any of his associates. We were expecting more resistance.”

Guest stepped away from the window and back to his desk. He tapped at his tablet, bringing up a dossier with several encrypted documents—each one marked with Forsaken clearance. The files Chance had delivered.

“He upselled himself perfectly so far. Maybe we underestimated his ability to adapt to that environment."

“He’s a natural, you know. He was able to handle the situation even when the plan began to fuck up.”

“Still,” Guest said, narrowing his eyes at the tablet, “this operation isn’t finished. The second phase depends on how cleanly we can disengage him without drawing attention. Mafioso doesn’t know anything?”

“Not that we’re aware of,” Shedletsky replied. “Surveillance on Mafioso hasn’t picked up any sign of him becoming suspicious. Chance kept his cover tight.”

Guest gave a curt nod. “Very good."

“What about Spectre?”

Guest’s expression darkened slightly at the name. “Jane Doe’s been quiet lately, but that doesn’t mean she’s idle. If she catches wind of any of this, she could use it to shift the balance."

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t.”

Guest nodded again, this time more slowly. “Good. We’re too deep in to have this collapse now. Chance did his job. Let’s make sure it stays that way."

“What about Dusekkar? The intern under your watch?”

Shedletsky gave a slight smile, shaking his head. “Dusekkar? He’s just a kid. Quiet, eager, and completely innocent. Doesn’t know half the dirt running around Forsaken. Just does his work and keeps to himself.”

Guest nodded thoughtfully. “No sign of trouble?”

“None. If anything, he’s more naive than anything else. Just trying to keep his head down.”

Guest’s expression softened for a moment. “Good. We need people like that — untainted. Keep an eye on him, though. Innocence can be a weakness in this business.”

Shedletsky chuckled quietly. “Will do.”

Guest leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp as he regarded Shedletsky. “You’ve always been smooth with your words. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

Shedletsky smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. “Just trying to lighten the mood. You take things too seriously, boss.”

Guest’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m here to get the job done, not to entertain.”

Shedletsky chuckled softly. “Fair enough. But if you ever want a break from all this... I’m here.”

Guest raised an eyebrow but remained unmoved. “Appreciate it. But I doubt I’ll be taking you up on that anytime soon.”

Shedletsky stepped closer without hesitation, the usual confident smirk softened into something more teasing and vulnerable. He leaned in slowly, resting his head lightly on Guest’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around him in a gentle, almost protective hug. The warmth of his presence contrasted with the cold atmosphere of the office.

“But I don’t recall you having a wife,” he murmured with a sly smile, his voice low and coaxing. “Why not just indulge me this once? Just this once, let me be something more than an ally.”

Guest stayed silent for a moment, the tension between them palpable. Then, with a soft chuckle that barely masked a flicker of amusement, he finally relented. “Fine,” Guest said, his voice steady but edged with rare softness. “Just this once.”

Shedletsky’s grin widened, the victory sweet but tempered by respect. The brief closeness spoke volumes, a rare crack in Guest’s usually unyielding armor.

Guest’s voice lowered into a curious, almost teasing tone as he asked, “When did you find out you were gay?”

Shedletsky chuckled softly, shifting his weight but not breaking the light embrace. “Funny story, actually,” he said with a sly grin. “I think I’ve always known. But it wasn’t until much later that I let myself admit it out loud.”

He glanced up at Guest, eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and sincerity. “What about you? Ever had a moment like that?”

Guest let out a low, amused sigh, his gaze distant for a moment. “...Not really, because I'm... not exactly gay."

Shedletsky smiled softly. “But here you are, indulging me. That’s a start.”

They stayed like that a while longer. The office lights now dimmed around them, but in that quiet space, something unspoken passed between them. Maybe it was something.

—

The bedroom door hadn’t even shut behind them before Mafioso shoved Chance to his knees.

The carpet burned beneath his skin, but nothing soft about the way Chance landed. Mafioso stood above him, broad and silent, chest heaving, cock hard and glistening from the earlier mess they made in the shower. He looked down like a god expecting worship. And Chance didn’t fight it.

Mafioso curled two fingers under Chance’s chin and tilted his face up. “Open your mouth.”

Chance’s lips parted immediately.

“Good.” 

His fingers slipped away, replaced by something hotter, heavier. Chance wrapped his lips around Mafioso's cock, taking him in slow, obedient, breath stuttering as Mafioso let out a deep groan above him. One hand immediately tangled in his hair, holding him there, and keeping him still.

“This is what you’re good for, huh?” Mafioso’s voice dropped into a growl, hips rolling forward. “Down on your knees, mouth wide open, just like you were meant to be.”

Chance moaned around him, heat flooding his face, his own cock twitching between his legs. He swallowed deeper, pushed forward. He let himself be used. 

He could feel the smirk in Mafioso’s breath when he gagged just a little, eyes watering, but didn’t pull away.

“Fuck… that’s it. Take it. Don’t you dare stop unless I say so.” Mafioso groaned

His grip tightened in Chance’s hair, the other hand resting on the back of his head now, controlling the rhythm. He didn’t thrust hard—not yet—but each movement was slow, deliberate, demanding. 

Chance let it happen, hands resting obediently on Mafioso’s thighs, mouth stretched wide, spit already dripping from his lips.

The lust and the control was maddening.

Mafioso cursed under his breath, hips twitching harder now. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this, sweetheart. Look at you—messy little thing, on your knees for me like you’ve got no pride left.”

Chance’s eyes fluttered up obediently, almost wet from the pleasure. Mafioso groaned at the sight and thrust deeper, grinding against the back of his throat. Chance choked, just a little, but he didn’t fight it. 

He wanted this—wanted to be broken open, wanted to be ruined under Mafioso’s hands, his voice, his praise.

When Mafioso finally pulled back, slick and panting, he kept a hand tangled in Chance’s hair.

“On the bed.” he ordered, voice rough. “Now. We’re not even close to done.”

—

The sheets clung to Chance’s damp skin as he collapsed onto the bed, chest rising and falling with shallow, spent breaths. His thighs were still twitching, now spread wide by Mafioso, as aftershocks rippled through him. 

Mafioso stood over him like a shadow, drinking in the sight—the bruises blooming along Chance’s hips, the slick sheen of water and cum still trailing down his legs, the way his hole leaked with every little shift.

Mafioso ran a palm slowly down the inside of Chance’s thigh, then cupped the base of his ass to spread him wide, just enough to get a better look.

“Look at your hole, sweetheart. So filled with my semen. You like it?”

Chance whimpered, his thighs quivering under Mafioso’s touch. “Ah... don’t t-touch it, please…”

Mafioso chuckled low in his throat. “My cum’s coming out of you.” He leaned in, blowing a breath against that overstimulated entrance. “We have to contain it.”

“Hngh… ah…”

“No protests for that?” he taunted.

“…What are you doing…?”

“I’m gonna stuff you with my cum, sweetheart,” Mafioso said, his tone calm—like he was explaining something ordinary, harmless. He grinned. “Can’t afford to let any out.”

Chance blinked up at him, breath catching. “B-but… you can just shoot inside me again… I don’t… mind.”

That made Mafioso pause. His gaze darkened. 

“Sweetheart. Do you know what you’re saying?”

“…Yeah.”

“You’re asking me to break you again.”

“…I am.”

For a long second, Mafioso just stared. And then he exhaled, voice like velvet over broken glass. “…Okay. But let’s do this first.”

Chance blinked, dazed. “Please… suck me. I’ll do the same to you.”

“Lay on your side,” Mafioso ordered, already settling back onto the bed.

Chance moved carefully, still sore, and straddled into place beside him. His face brushed against Mafioso’s cock as he aligned them, and his own length now hovered above Mafioso’s waiting mouth.

He let out a soft moan when Mafioso’s breath ghosted across the head.

“Hngh. I can’t keep doing it… this feels too good, fuck…” Chance groaned.

“You don’t have to,” Mafioso said with a low laugh, one hand gripping Chance’s hip to hold him steady. “You can just lay there and feel everything. I don’t even know why you suggested this.”

“But… I want to pleasure you too…”

“You already have, sweetheart.” Mafioso’s tongue licked a stripe along Chance’s length. “You pleasured me earlier. Very well.”

Chance gasped, his own tongue flicking nervously over the head of Mafioso’s cock, trying to focus despite the overwhelming sensations. His legs trembled again as Mafioso opened his mouth and took him deep in one slow, possessive motion.

“Fuck… that feels good…” Chance moaned, bucking slightly into the warmth. His tongue worked slowly in return, licking and kissing, trying to keep up even as his thoughts unraveled.

“Hngh… shit… fuck, this feels so good…”

Each motion was too much—too slow, too deep—and Chance felt his orgasm building again, faster than he expected. To top it up, Mafioso also started rubbing Chance’s asshole with two fingers.

“I wanna cum.” Chance whimpered, pulling out from the other man’s cock. “Please, please, please…”

Mafioso grunted around him, hands pressing hard into his thighs.

“Go ahead.” he rasped when he pulled back. “Shower me with your semen then.”

“Ah—fuck!” Chance cried out, spilling himself in thick, hot spurts across Mafioso’s face.

Mafioso didn’t flinch.

He took the mess with pride, dragging his fingers through it, smearing it over his mouth, across his cheek, his chin. He looked up at Chance with a smirk, face glistening, eyes half-lidded with hunger.

Chance’s breath hitched. His heart stuttered.

He looks so fucking hot. I want to paint his face more…

“Do I look good, sweetheart?” Mafioso asked, licking some of it off his fingers.

Chance couldn’t meet his eyes. His face flushed deep. “Y-yeah…” he whispered, voice cracking as he looked away.

Mafioso chuckled darkly, dragging him down for another kiss, tongue demanding, possessive.

“And we’re still not done.”

Chance laid back on the bed, body still twitching from his orgasm. Mafioso had barely given him time to recover before he was flipped over, chest pressed to the mattress, ass lifted by strong hands under his hips.

“Still leaking.” Mafioso muttered with a low hum, parting Chance’s cheeks to reveal the flushed, twitching mess between them. “Told you we needed to keep it all inside. Look at this.”

Chance squirmed weakly, face burning as cool air hit his oversensitive entrance.

“Mmm… I can see everything.” Mafioso drawled, tracing a thumb around the rim, smearing the cum already slipping out. “You really can’t hold it in, can you?”

Chance whimpered, fingers fisting the sheets. “S-sorry… I tried…”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mafioso said, breath warm as he leaned in closer, voice laced with cruel amusement. “Don’t apologize. You’re perfect like this.”

And then, without warning, Mafioso buried his face between Chance’s cheeks.

“Ah—!” Chance jerked, thighs trembling, eyes flying open.

Mafioso groaned, tongue dragging a slow, deep lick across the mess, lapping up every drop of his own release. He didn’t stop at the rim—he spread Chance wider, gripped his hips tighter, and started to eat him out like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“F-fuck, oh my god—” Chance cried out, entire body shuddering under the wet, relentless heat of it.

Mafioso was merciless.

He circled his tongue over the stretched entrance, dipping just inside, then pulling back to suck and tease with sharp flicks that made Chance sob into the sheets. One of his hands slid up to Chance’s lower back to keep him still, the other gripping his thigh, spreading him even more open, completely exposed.

“Does it feel good, sweetheart?” Mafioso murmured between licks, voice muffled. “Let me clean you up properly.”

Chance nodded frantically, unable to speak, unable to stop the way his hips kept rocking back, begging for more. He was so overstimulated, so painfully turned on again, his cock starting to harden against the sheets.

“You’re such a mess.” Mafioso murmured. “So swollen, so stretched. I can still taste myself inside you.” He sucked gently at the rim now, and Chance screamed, forehead slamming against the pillow.

“Hngh—f-fuck—”

“Too much?” he said with a grin, not stopping. His tongue plunged deeper this time, fucking him open in slow, filthy strokes. “You’re clenching like you want more.”

Chance was sobbing now, mind spiraling, body helpless under the weight of pleasure and shame and desire. Every flick of Mafioso’s tongue sent another wave of heat down his spine. His cock twitched, dripping again.

“I—I can’t—!”

“Yes, you can.” Mafioso growled, voice thick with arousal. 

“You’ll take what I give you, sweetheart.”

And Chance did. Every lick. Every suck. Every filthy, wet noise that echoed in the room as Mafioso devoured him, tongue fucking him open like he needed to be claimed all over again.

When Mafioso finally pulled back, his chin slick with spit and cum, he gave Chance’s rim one last kiss.

“Now,” he said, sitting up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Let’s have some more fun.”

Chance was limp, trembling, his body soaked with spit and sweat and the remnants of Mafioso’s saliva and cum in his hole. He couldn’t even find the strength to roll over—not until Mafioso gripped his waist again and dragged him onto his side.

“Sweetheart,” Mafioso murmured, voice thick, “you’re making a mess of my sheets.”

Chance blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted and flushed. “S-sorry…”

“You keep apologizing.” Mafioso said, brushing his thumb along Chance’s jaw, then down his neck, “but the only thing I want from you is more.”

He leaned in, kissing Chance roughly, tongue slipping into his mouth—still tasting like himself. Chance moaned into it, weak hands clutching at Mafioso’s forearms as their bodies pressed together.

“Lay on your back.” Mafioso ordered.

Chance obeyed.

Mafioso climbed on top, straddling one of Chance’s thighs as he reached down and wrapped a hand around both their cocks. They were already hard again—Chance trembling from anticipation, Mafioso grinning with heat in his eyes.

“Let me feel you like this.” he whispered, voice low and dangerous.

He pressed their cocks together, hips beginning to move in slow, grinding thrusts. Slick and hot, their cocks slid against each other—lubricated by sweat, precum, and the remnants of earlier acts.

Chance gasped, legs falling open further, desperate for any friction. “A-ah… Maf, please—”

“Shh,” Mafioso muttered, grinding harder. His body flexed above Chance, arms braced on either side of his head. 

“You want me to stuff you again, don’t you? I will. But for now, you’re gonna come like this. With me.”

Their rhythm built quickly, raw, and desperate.

Skin slapped against skin, precum slick between them, both of them panting harder now. Mafioso’s cock twitched against Chance’s, thick and hot, as he ground their hips together with more force.

“Feel that?” Mafioso growled. “You’re so warm… fuck… feels like your body was made for me.”

Chance couldn’t speak—his eyes fluttered, mouth open in silent moans as he chased the friction, hips rocking up in sync. His cock rubbed against Mafioso’s with each thrust, every inch of him screaming from overstimulation and craving.

“I’m gonna cum, I—I can’t hold it—”

“Do it. Come with me.”

That was all it took.

Chance cried out, nails digging into Mafioso’s back as his orgasm ripped through him, hot spurts of cum splashing between their stomachs. Mafioso followed a moment later with a low, guttural groan, grinding through his release, coating their cocks and in more cum.

They kept moving even after riding the high, smearing every drop between them until it dripped down Chance’s sides, staining the sheets.

When they finally slowed, Mafioso leaned down and kissed him again—sloppy, rough, and slow.

“You look ruined.” he whispered, licking the corner of Chance’s mouth.

“I… feel ruined…” Chance mumbled with a hazy smile.

“You’re not done yet.” Mafioso said, grinning against his lips. “I’m still gonna break you, remember?”

“Get on all fours, now.”

His hands didn’t hesitate—gripping Chance’s hips with an iron grip, tugging him up from the tangled sheets.

Chance’s heart thundered in his chest, nerves and desire swirling together, and he obeyed without a word. His hands planted firmly on the mattress, knees sinking softly into the plush fabric, legs spread wide and open like an invitation Mafioso wasn’t going to refuse.

Mafioso’s breath hitched as his cock throbbed, slick with their combined arousal. Without a pause, he pressed against Chance’s hole, sliding home in one brutal, shattering thrust that made Chance gasp, his back arching involuntarily.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight.” Mafioso growled, fingers digging into Chance’s hips, steadying him as he began a punishing pace. He started slow and deep at first, then built into a relentless, powerful rhythm.

Each thrust was still like a mark of possession, and Chance could feel it in every nerve ending, every shuddering breath. 

Mafioso’s hands roamed possessively over Chance’s body—one tracing along the curve of his spine, the other gripping hard enough to leave more marks on his hips.

“It’s still so big… fuck, shit!"

Chance’s nails dug into the sheets beneath him, fingertips trembling with the fire of sensation coursing through his veins. His breaths came faster, rough and ragged, eyes fluttering closed as pleasure mingled with submission.

“Please,” Chance gasped, voice barely more than a whisper, “Don’t stop.... fuck!”

Mafioso chuckled darkly. 

The wet slap of skin against skin echoed softly around the room, mingling with their heavy breathing and muffled moans. 

Mafioso’s thrusts grew more forceful, his hips driving harder into Chance’s waiting body, each movement sending sparks of fire deep inside. “Fuck… I’m gonna cum soon…”

Chance’s body trembled, heat pooling low and heavy, his mind spiraling into a delicious haze of pleasure and surrender. “I’m close too…” he moaned, voice cracking under the intensity. “I can’t hold on—”

“Cum for me,” Mafioso growled, voice thick and commanding, “Show me you belong to me.”

With a strangled cry, Chance’s orgasm ripped through him, his cock spurting cum pathetically. His body convulsed as waves of pleasure crashed against Mafioso’s relentless thrusts. “Shit, shit, shit, ah…”

“Fuck!” Mafioso groaned, his own release following seconds later as he spilled inside, their bodies slick and trembling together, eventually pulling out, making Chance whimper. 

“Mmmh…”

“Amazing.”

With a sharp pull, he carried Chance out of the bed, spun him around, and pressed him flush against the cold glass window. The chill of the window pressed against Chance’s bare chest sent a sharp contrast against the burning heat of Mafioso’s body pressed hard to his back.

“Sweetheart.” Mafioso’s voice was a low growl, thick with dominance and hunger. “You’re only mine — every inch, every breath.”

Chance’s breath hitched as Mafioso’s cock slid slowly along his entrance again, slick and pulsing with need. Inch by inch, Mafioso pushed deeper, filling him completely with a slow, delicious stretch that made Chance shiver.

Chance’s legs instinctively wrapped around Mafioso’s hips, anchoring himself tight as Mafioso’s hands explored possessively — one hand curled around Chance’s throat, just enough to remind him who owned him, the other gripping his hip hard enough to leave marks.

Mafioso’s hips started a slow, grinding rhythm, every movement deliberate and full of claim. The slick slap of skin against skin echoed softly through the room as Mafioso pressed harder, each thrust driving deeper, faster, rougher.

Chance’s hands dug into the cool glass, fingers trembling as waves of pleasure surged through him. His breath was ragged, a mixture of gasps and moans as he surrendered fully to the powerful sensation and the undeniable control Mafioso wielded over him.

“You feel so good, sweetheart.” Mafioso murmured against Chance’s ear, voice husky and possessive. “So fucking perfect pressed against me.”

“I’m yours.” Chance breathed, voice breaking with raw emotion.

“Yes. Mine.”

The pace increased, hips snapping together hard and fast, the friction igniting a fire deep inside Chance. 

“Please, please, please… break me more… shit! Ah, fuck…” 

His body trembled, muscles tight, heart pounding as the pleasure built unbearably. “I’m so fucking close…” Chance gasped, his voice desperate, vulnerable.

Mafioso’s grip tightened on his throat, a warning and an encouragement all at once. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Show me how much you belong to me.”

With a strangled cry, Chance’s body shuddered violently, releasing waves of exquisite pleasure as he came undone pressed against Mafioso. 

Mafioso followed seconds later, groaning deeply as he spilled inside, their bodies slick and trembling.

“Ah, fuck… I can never get enough of you…”

Chapter Text

Mafioso pulled out slowly, both of them slick and trembling, the quiet aftermath hanging heavy between them.

Chance winced, laid sprawled across the bed, body trembling and slick with sweat, breath coming in shallow, uneven pants. His legs were weak, hips and bottom sore, and his eyelids fluttered with the weight of sheer exhaustion.

“I… can’t… no more…” he mumbled, voice nearly breaking.

Mafioso leaned over him, brushing damp strands of hair away from his forehead. His tone shifted, dropping the possessiveness from earlier into something gentler, grounding.

“Hey,” he murmured, “don’t worry. I’ll clean us up.”

Carefully, Mafioso slipped away from the bed and returned with a warm, damp cloth. He took his time, wiping Chance’s chest, stomach, thighs—anywhere touched by sweat and cum.

Chance winced as Mafioso ran the cloth between his legs.

“Sorry,” Mafioso said softly. “I’ll be gentle.”

Once he was cleaned, Mafioso helped Chance to the bathroom. The tub was already steaming, filled earlier. He stepped in first, then reached for Chance and eased him into the water.

The warmth hit Chance’s aching muscles like a balm, and he sank against Mafioso’s chest with a tired sigh. 

His hands found Chance’s waist immediately. The water enveloped them both, warmth soothing the ache left by their fierce lovemaking.

They bathed in silence. Mafioso washed Chance’s hair with slow fingers, tracing suds through the strands before rinsing them gently.

“You’re shaking,” Mafioso whispered into his hair.

Chance barely nodded. “It’s a lot…”

“I know.” Mafioso kissed his temple. “Just breathe. We’ve got all night.”

After a long moment, Mafioso pulled back, drying Chance slowly with a soft towel, lingering on the sensitive skin of his neck and shoulders.

He left Chance in the bathroom wrapped in a thick robe while he changed the sheets, pulling the stained linens off. Fresh sheets, crisp and clean, replaced them, the cool fabric a comforting contrast to the heat they’d left behind.

Mafioso returned to the bathroom, pulling Chance gently into the bedroom. 

“Come to bed.” Mafioso whispered, leading him to lie down amidst the freshly made sheets.

They fit together seamlessly, limbs tangled and skin warm despite the cool night air sneaking through the window cracks. Mafioso’s hands never left Chance’s body, tracing slow, soothing patterns over his back and shoulders.

“I’ll take care of you.” Mafioso murmured, voice low but firm. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Chance smiled tiredly, curling into Mafioso’s side, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his ear. “Okay.”

Mafioso kissed him on the lips. “Sleep well, sweetheart.” 

The room grew still, the only sounds were their synchronized breathing and the faint hum of the city below. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they drifted slowly into a peaceful sleep, the fierce possessiveness of the night replaced with a quiet, enduring tenderness.

—

Sunlight filtered into the room through sheer curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the bed. Chance stirred slowly, blinking awake to find the other side of the bed warm but empty.

Then came the smell—something sizzling.

Still sore, Chance pulled himself up and shuffled into the kitchen. 

Mafioso stood at the stove, shirtless, cooking eggs with practiced ease. “You’re awake.” he said, glancing back with a small smile.

“You’re cooking?” Chance asked, voice hoarse with sleep.

“I thought you deserved something good after last night.” He plated the eggs with toast, even added a few berries on the side. “Sit.”

Chance sat in the kitchen, bare legs folded loosely beneath him, the smell of buttered toast and sizzling eggs settling in the air. He blinked blearily at the plate Mafioso had just set down, the soft clink of ceramic grounding him in the stillness of morning.

He watched the older man move around the stove, broad back shifting with each movement, muscles calm now—no longer tense with hunger or control.

This doesn’t make sense . He’s supposed to be dangerous.

And yet here he was. Making breakfast. Changing sheets. Holding him in a bath like Chance was something worth keeping warm, not just used and discarded.

The toast crunched beneath his teeth. Mafioso sat beside him with his own plate, casual, quiet. Their knees brushed.

Chance swallowed, hesitating before speaking. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Mafioso didn’t look up right away. “I wanted to.”

“But… last night, you were so—” He cut himself off. It wasn’t a complaint. He didn’t want it to sound like one. “You were rough.”

“I was.” Mafioso’s voice dropped. “And you said yes. Every time.”

Chance felt the heat crawl up his neck, ears burning. 

“But this,” Mafioso continued, nudging his plate a little closer, “isn’t separate from that. I meant what I said when I told you I’d take care of you. Not just the parts that make you beg.”

Chance looked down at his half-eaten toast. Why does he say things like that? Like they mean something?

He didn’t know how to respond. So he chewed instead, quietly, grateful for the food, the warmth, the strange softness of a man who’d had him face-down just hours ago.

When they finished eating, Mafioso reached over and wiped a smear of butter from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He didn’t speak. Just stared a moment longer than he needed to.

And Chance—Chance let him.

They lingered at the kitchen table longer than they needed to. Mafioso’s hand rested near his, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat.

Chance’s stomach was full. His body felt warm and clean and rested, but his mind wouldn’t stop.

He kept glancing at the man beside him.

At his soft expression. The way he’d leaned back in his chair, relaxed. 

Why is he trusting me?

Chance’s jaw tensed. He looked down at his fingers, curled lightly around his coffee mug. We shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here.

Last night, he’d let himself go. Gotten lost in the sensation, the way Mafioso made him feel—owned, wanted, ruined. And now this?

You're on a mission. This was a game. It had to be. Right?

Chance’s heart thudded dully in his chest. Forsaken had given him a job. Seduce the CEO. Find out the truth about Sonno. Report back. Infiltrate, extract, disappear.

But disappearing was starting to sound impossible.

Because even now, with no eyes on him, he didn’t want to move away from Mafioso’s warmth.

He risked a glance sideways.

Mafioso was watching him—but there was no pressure in his gaze. 

“You’re quiet. Too quiet.”

Chance blinked. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come.

The older man leaned in a little. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Chance gripped the coffee mug tighter. “I just… I don’t know what this is supposed to be.”

Mafioso didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, placing a firm hand over Chance’s.

“I’m not pretending.”

That made Chance’s breath hitch. He looked up, and for a second, everything in him screamed to run. That this was too real. Too dangerous.

But Mafioso’s thumb brushed gently across his knuckles. Just once. Steady.

“I don’t care how you got here. I care that you stayed.”

Chance looked down again, throat tight. You don’t know the truth. And if you did... would you still say that?

—

That night, Chance couldn’t sleep.

He lay still, Mafioso’s arm draped over his waist, the man’s breath warm at the back of his neck. The sheets were clean, the room silent except for the gentle hum of the city outside the penthouse windows.

It should’ve been comforting. But the stillness made the guilt louder.

At some point, he slipped out from under Mafioso’s arm and pulled on the first clothes he could find — not his own, but a loose shirt that smelled like the man he was betraying.

He padded into the bathroom, locked the door, and pulled out the burner phone that he brought. The glow of the screen lit up his face. Guest’s name was on the screen.

Status report.

Chance stared at the blinking cursor. His thumbs hovered over the keys.

Close. He’s starting to open up.

Get everything fast. We’re moving soon.

Understood.

Chance stared at the screen for a few seconds longer, then shut the device off and tucked it away.

When he stepped back into the bedroom, Mafioso stirred. His eyes opened and locked onto Chance through the dimness.

“Bathroom?” he asked, voice still gravelly with sleep.

Chance nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Mafioso blinked slowly, then extended an arm in invitation. “Come back.”

Chance hesitated, only a second. Then crossed the room and slipped back under the sheets.

The moment he was close, Mafioso curled around him again, pulling him in without a word.

But Chance didn’t see the way Mafioso’s eyes lingered open in the dark, brows drawn ever so slightly.

The man was dangerous — always calculating, even when wrapped in warmth. And something in Chance’s quiet, in the way he returned to bed, was different.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

—

Two days after Chance’s late-night check-in, Mafioso was in his office — alone, door locked, curtains drawn.

He sat at his desk, one hand resting beside a security tablet, the other holding a glass of dark liquor. The screen glowed with a paused security recording: the hallway outside the penthouse bathroom.

He watched the footage again.

Chance stepping out. Glancing over his shoulder. Pulling something — barely visible. Small, square, electronic. He entered the bathroom. Stayed there for eight minutes.

Mafioso narrowed his eyes. You weren’t just peeing.

He clicked over to another file — internal security sweeps. Most of them were set to ignore guests by default, a courtesy to maintain privacy in private residences.

But Mafioso hadn’t always trusted people, and he sure as hell didn’t now.

He brought up a new report. Last 72 hours. Filtered by transmissions, devices, unknown signals. There was one ping. 

Mafioso didn’t show any visible reaction, but his fingers tightened around the glass. He leaned back in his chair. Exhaled through his nose.

So… you’re hiding something from me, sweetheart.

Later that night, they sat on the couch in the dim living room. The TV played some crime drama, volume low. Mafioso was lounging — shirtless, relaxed, sprawled with his arm around Chance.

But his eyes were sharp. “You’ve been… different lately. You’ve been quieter.”

Chance blinked, surprised. “Have I?”

Mafioso hummed. “Mm. Something on your mind?”

Chance hesitated, then offered a weak smile. “Just tired, I guess. The past few nights were… a lot.”

Mafioso chuckled. “Are you saying I wore you out?” The smirk on his face was genuine, but his gaze stayed locked. 

Chance laughed, easing against him. “You did, actually.”

Mafioso’s hand brushed along Chance’s back. “Tell me something, sweetheart.”

“Mm?”

“If I asked you to stay with me, would you?”

The words hit like a slow punch to the chest. Chance froze.

Mafioso felt it. In the breath Chance held. The tension in his shoulders.

“That’s a weird thing to ask.” Chance said quietly.

“Is it?” Mafioso pressed. “You’ve been here for days. Sharing my bed. My food. My time.”

“I—” Chance swallowed. “It’s complicated.”

“I bet it is.”

The silence between them thickened. Mafioso let it hang.

—

It was early morning, just after dawn.

Mafioso stood alone in the penthouse hallway, robe loosely tied around his waist. Steam rolled from under the bathroom door — Chance was inside, shower running.

Something had caught his attention earlier: the faintest metallic clink. He’d heard it from the bedroom, followed it like instinct.

He crouched by the guest bathroom sink.

Behind it, almost too deep to see, wedged inside a false panel near the piping—a small burner phone.

He plucked it out. Flipped it over. Screen locked, no notifications visible — but this wasn’t a phone meant for regular use. 

His jaw ticked. No emotion on his face. Palmed the device. Then tucked it into the deep pocket of his robe. 

The water shut off.

Mafioso stepped back into the kitchen like nothing had happened.

—

Chance walked out, toweling his hair, wearing one of Mafioso’s shirts again.

“Morning,” Mafioso said smoothly, flipping a pancake on the stove. “Sleep alright?”

“Yeah.” Chance replied with a small smile. “Thanks.”

Mafioso gestured toward the counter. 

Chance obeyed — but Mafioso watched him closely.

He was distracted. Checking his pockets twice. Pacing, pretending not to. He excused himself to the guest bathroom mid-breakfast, and returned looking just a little… off.

Mafioso slid a mug of coffee toward him. “Looking for something?”

Chance blinked. “Huh?”

“You keep patting your hips like you lost your wallet.”

Chance forced a laugh. “Just a habit, I guess.”

“Mm.”

They locked eyes across the table. Mafioso smiled gently — the same smile he gave people right before pulling a trigger.

But he didn’t say anything more.

Chance stirred his coffee, barely registering the warmth between his hands. Mafioso sat across from him, relaxed, sipping his own drink like any ordinary morning — like they weren’t playing psychological chicken.

But Chance could feel it.

The air was wrong.

His mind raced.

He’d searched the guest bathroom twice. Felt inside the panel where he knew he’d hidden the burner. Nothing. Not even the quiet sound it used to make when it vibrated against the pipe.

It was gone.

Mafioso spoke up casually. “You keep looking around like you forgot something.”

Chance looked up, met his gaze. “Yeah.” he said, trying not to swallow too hard. “Just realized I left my watch back at my place.”

“Hm. Is that so?” Mafioso smiled. “Y’know, I always wonder what people keep in bathrooms. Most hide pills. Others… things they don't want seen.”

Chance stiffened. His fingers gripped the cup tighter.

He knows. He fucking knows.

But Mafioso just stood, slowly, stepping behind Chance’s chair. Placed a hand on his shoulder. “You sure you’re not forgetting anything else, sweetheart?”

The weight of that touch burned.

Chance gave a strained smile. “No. I’m good.”

Mafioso leaned in by his ear, whispering low. “Then why do you look so nervous?”

He pulled back, kissed Chance’s cheek, then walked off toward the bedroom like nothing happened.

Leaving Chance frozen in place — coffee untouched, thoughts racing.

Chapter Text

The next few days blurred together. Mafioso didn’t mention the phone. 

But Chance could feel it. Every interaction carried weight. Every word felt like it had a second meaning.

Mafioso’s questions became more pointed. 

“Have you ever worked for phone companies, sweetheart? You’re oddly good with them.”

He’d ask these things while massaging Chance’s shoulders. Or when they were in bed, bodies tangled under dim lights. Or over breakfast, flipping pancakes with that same lazy smile.

And Chance would lie everytime. But it didn’t matter, because Mafioso never pressed. He just always noted.

One night, they were on the couch, a movie playing soundlessly in the background. Mafioso had one arm around him, fingers drumming along Chance’s arm in a rhythm he couldn’t decipher.

Then Mafioso murmured, “Tell me something real about you.”

Chance stiffened. “I—what do you mean?”

“Just something.” Mafioso’s eyes were on the screen, not him. “Anything you haven’t told anyone else.”

Chance hesitated. His heart beat in his throat. He couldn’t tell if it was an invitation or a trap. 

“I used to steal candy from shops as a kid.” he finally muttered, the first lie that didn’t feel calculated.

Mafioso smiled. But when he spoke again, his voice dropped. “That’s cute.” Then he tilted his head slightly. “Shame, though. You lie so easily.”

Chance’s breath caught.

Mafioso stood, walked to the bar to pour himself a drink, as if he hadn’t just dropped a blade in Chance’s chest.

—

The penthouse was cloaked in the soft hum of the city lights outside. Mafioso stood before Chance, the burner phone dangling between his fingers like a weapon.

He slowly brought it close to Chance’s face, watching every flicker in his eyes.

“You forgot this.” Mafioso said, voice low and cold.

Chance’s pulse quickened. His hand shot up instinctively. “Give it back.”

Mafioso smirked, pulling the phone just out of reach. “No. You tell me. Who are you, really?”

Chance swallowed, refusing to meet Mafioso’s gaze. “Just someone who’s close to you.”

Mafioso’s eyes darkened. “Don’t play games.”

“I’m not playing.” Chance said quietly, voice steady despite the pounding in his chest.

Mafioso’s smirk faded into a sharper, harder expression. He stepped closer, pressing the phone lightly against Chance’s forehead. “You think I’m an idiot? That I won’t find out who you really work for?”

Chance’s jaw tightened but he didn’t speak.

Mafioso dropped the phone onto the couch, fingers curling possessively around Chance’s jaw. “Who do you belong to?”

Chance’s breath hitched but he stayed silent, eyes locked on the floor.

Mafioso’s voice softened, dangerous but intimate. “I want to hear you say it.”

Chance shook his head barely perceptible. “No.” he whispered.

Mafioso’s fingers lingered a moment longer, then he stepped back.

“Alright.” Mafioso said quietly, voice a mix of warning and something close to affection. “But don’t forget — I own you now.”

Chance’s eyes snapped up, burning with a mixture of exhaustion and defiance. “No.” he said firmly, voice low but steady. “You don’t own me.”

Mafioso’s expression twisted, the faint smirk vanishing, replaced by something sharper—anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You think you get to say that?” Mafioso’s voice dropped, cold and hard as steel. “After everything? After I found your little secret?”

He stepped forward, invading Chance’s space, fingers tightening on his jaw, tilting his face up so their eyes locked. “I own you, Chance. Don’t mistake my patience for weakness.”

Chance’s breath hitched, heart pounding not just from fear but from the raw, possessive heat radiating from Mafioso. “Maybe you think that.” Chance whispered, voice almost a challenge. “But I’m not yours to control.”

Mafioso’s eyes darkened, his patience snapped like a brittle thread. Without warning, he grabbed Chance by the collar, pulling him flush against his chest. “Say it again.” Mafioso growled, voice thick with possession and fury. “Tell me you’re not mine.”

Chance’s breath hitched, but he didn’t back down. His hands found Mafioso’s wrists, gripping tightly. “No. I’m not yours.”

Mafioso’s grip tightened, enough to make Chance wince, but his eyes burned with something more—a wild, possessive hunger. “You’ll learn.” Mafioso hissed, lowering his head to press a harsh kiss against Chance’s temple. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Chance’s pulse raced, heart pounding between fear, anger, and something dangerously close to craving. “Try me.” Chance whispered back, voice steady and challenging.

Mafioso smirked against his skin, fingers releasing his collar just enough to brush a finger down Chance’s jaw.  “You have no idea what you’re dealing with, sweetheart.”

The room pulsed with tension, both men locked in a fierce battle for control — neither willing to give an inch.

Chance’s chest tightened, adrenaline surging through his veins like wildfire. Mafioso’s possessive grip was suffocating, and for the first time, something inside him snapped.

With a sharp breath, Chance shoved hard against Mafioso’s chest, snatching the burner phone from the other man’s hands.

“What the fuck!” 

Chance didn’t wait. He bolted for the door.

“Get back here!” Mafioso roared, storming after him, but Chance was faster.

He twisted the lock, slammed the door behind him, and ran down the hall, heart pounding like a war drum.

Inside the elevator, he leaned against the cold metal, panting hard. The burner phone was clenched tight in his hand. For now, he was free.

—

The door slammed shut, the sharp click of the lock echoing through the penthouse like a challenge.

Mafioso stood frozen for a heartbeat, chest heaving, eyes burning with rage and disbelief. “Run all you want, Chance.” he muttered, voice low and dangerous. “But you won’t get far.”

He paced, fists clenched tight, the weight of betrayal twisting like a knife in his gut.

Grabbing his phone, Mafioso tapped a quick message to Noli, Jason, and Azure, the words cold and ruthless. 

Find him. Now.

—

Chance’s breath was shallow, heart pounding in his chest like a trapped animal. Every shadow felt like it held a threat. He knew he’d been found out — and the walls were closing in fast.

Back in his apartment, the silence was suffocating.

He moved quietly to his phone, fingers trembling as he typed a quick, urgent message to Shedletsky.

I got found out. They’re here. Need immediate backup. Hold on.

Seconds later, the reply blinked on the screen.

On my way. Hold tight.

No time to think further. Suddenly, the door creaked, then burst open.

Noli stepped in first, eyes cold and unyielding. Behind him, Jason — silent as always, but just as deadly, followed. Azure was the last, a ghost in the shadows with a knife glinting faintly in the dim light.

Chance’s pulse hammered against his ribs, but he forced himself to stay calm.

They were Mafioso’s friends. He slipped the phone into his pocket, preparing for whatever came next.

Chance’s muscles tensed as Noli, Jason, and Azure closed in. His eyes darted around the cramped apartment, searching for anything he could use—anything to buy time.

Noli advanced first, a cruel look twisting his mask. Jason stood silently behind him, his gaze deadly and unreadable. Azure moved like a shadow, knife gleaming in his hand.

Chance backed toward the kitchen counter, grabbing a heavy metal pan, his grip steady despite the pounding in his chest.

“I’m not going back!” Chance said through clenched teeth, eyes locked on his foes.

Noli laughed softly. “You don’t have a choice.”

Suddenly, Jason lunged, silent and fast. Chance barely dodged, swinging the pan hard and connecting with Jason’s shoulder.

Jason grunted but recovered quickly, pressing forward.

Azure circled around, forcing Chance toward the living room.

Chance’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Shedletsky’s message.

Hold on. Almost there.

Breathing heavily, Chance gritted his teeth, readying himself to fight for every second.

Chance fought fiercely, every instinct screaming to break free. But Noli’s grip was iron, Jason’s silent precision unyielding, and Azure’s knife cut through his defenses like a shadow.

His strength waned and his breath hitched. Before he could even realize it, he was restrained, his struggles useless against their combined force.

—

The ride back to Mafioso’s penthouse was silent, the weight of defeat settling over Chance like a shroud.

Once inside, Mafioso stood waiting — a predator pleased with his prize. His eyes glinted as he looked down at Chance, bound but unbroken in spirit. “Welcome back.” Mafioso murmured, voice low and possessive. “I told you, you belong to me.”

Chance’s eyes met Mafioso’s, but he looked away deliberately. His jaw clenched tightly as if steeling himself.

Mafioso’s smile faltered, his possessive confidence shaken by the silent refusal. “You’re mine.” Mafioso said, voice low but firm, stepping closer. “No matter how much you ignore me.”

Chance didn’t respond. He didn’t even flinch.

The silence between them grew heavy, charged with unspoken defiance and frustration.

Mafioso’s hand hovered near Chance’s face, then dropped slowly, his expression darkening. “You can’t shut me out forever.” 

Chance stayed still, unmoved. For now, he wouldn’t give Mafioso the satisfaction.

—

Chance lay on his side, the cold sheets pressing against his skin, but it was the weight inside him that felt heavier. Silent tears traced slow paths down his cheek, catching the faint light from the city skyline through the penthouse windows. He didn’t make a sound—no sobs, no cries—just the steady drip of quiet despair.

His body trembled, exhaustion mixing with the raw ache of betrayal, fear, and something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to name.

Outside the bedroom door, Mafioso lingered, listening. The quiet was unfamiliar, unsettling. He stepped inside without knocking, the scent of the room—Chance’s scent—filling his senses.

Mafioso’s eyes softened, but his voice remained low, cautious. “You don’t have to hide it.”

Chance didn’t respond.

Slowly, Mafioso crossed the room and sat beside him on the bed, the heat of his presence close but not overwhelming.

After a long moment, Mafioso reached out, his hand hovering near Chance’s shoulder before finally settling there, firm but gentle.

Chance flinched at first, then allowed the contact, his body stiffening.

Mafioso laid beside him and pulled him closer, wrapping an arm around Chance’s trembling frame. The embrace was possessive, but there was an implication of something quieter—protection, maybe even regret.

Chance rested his head against Mafioso’s chest, the tears still falling, but now shared in the silence between them.

Mafioso whispered, barely audible, “I’m sorry it had to come to this.” He pulled Chance a little closer, their breaths mingling in the quiet room.

He felt the shift immediately — the sudden stillness, the retreat into himself. His possessive side wrestled with the tenderness swelling inside.  Slowly, Mafioso eased back from the embrace, eyes never leaving Chance’s face, tracing the faint tracks of tears on his pale skin.

Gently, Mafioso reached for a soft cloth and dampened it with warm water he’d brought in. With deliberate care, he wiped the tears from Chance’s cheek, his fingers lingering a moment longer, as if memorizing every detail.

Chance didn’t move, didn’t protest — just allowed himself to be cared for in this small, unexpected way.

Mafioso’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to say anything. Not now. Just rest.”

For hours, Mafioso stayed by his side, a silent guardian against the shadows pressing in from all sides. 

—

Chance was finally asleep, his breathing slow and even, though the tension beneath his skin hadn’t fully eased. Mafioso lay beside him, one arm draped protectively over Chance’s waist, the other resting near his face.

His eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicked down to the man who’d so stubbornly refused to submit.

A low whisper slipped from Mafioso’s lips, barely audible in the dark room.

“I know you’re working for Forsaken.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and inevitable.

But still, Chance’s body remained still, silent in sleep, holding his secrets close even now.

Mafioso’s hand tightened slightly around Chance’s side. “I don’t hate you for it. But don’t think I’ll ever let you forget who you belong to.”

The city lights flickered through the window, casting long shadows, as Mafioso watched over the man who’d captured him.

—

The first pale light of dawn seeped through the tall windows, gently illuminating the room. Chance’s eyes blinked open, heavy and tired. He didn’t speak. His throat felt tight, and the words wouldn’t come. He simply lay there, still and quiet, letting the warmth wash over him.

Mafioso’s dark eyes searched Chance’s face, reading the silence but not pressing. Instead, his voice dropped softly, tender but possessive.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” He brushed a hand through Chance’s damp hair with deliberate gentleness, tracing the curve of his neck as if memorizing every inch.

“You slept well. I kept watch.” 

Chance’s gaze didn’t meet his. He remained still, silent, as if gathering strength in the quiet.

Mafioso’s lips pressed into a thin line, but his fingers didn’t falter. “I’m making breakfast.” He shifted lightly, sliding off the bed with care, leaving a soft warmth behind.

—

Chance sat on the living room couch, his posture tense but restrained. The soft morning light spilled through the windows. He stared down at his hands, fingers loosely intertwined, the silence hanging heavy between his thoughts.

The faint sounds of clinking dishes and soft footsteps drifted from the kitchen. Mafioso was busy preparing breakfast.

Chance’s jaw tightened. His mind raced with suspicion and exhaustion, but he said nothing. For now, this quiet waiting felt like the only thing he could manage.

Occasionally, the smell of coffee and something sizzling teased the air, mingling with the faint scent of Mafioso’s cologne that lingered in the apartment.

He shifted slightly, eyes flicking toward the doorway where Mafioso would soon appear.

Soon, Mafioso stepped into the living room carrying a tray with two plates—eggs cooked just right, crispy bacon, and steaming coffee. He set it down carefully on the small table in front of Chance, who remained silent, eyes fixed on the floor.

Mafioso settled beside him into the same couch, folding his hands on his lap. His gaze was sharp, unwavering.

“I know you’re working for Forsaken. I had some colleagues find out.” 

Chance didn’t flinch or respond. Mafioso’s eyes softened just a fraction.

“But I’m not angry. Not because of who you work for… but because you keep holding yourself at a distance. You don’t have to carry this alone, sweetheart.”

He paused, searching Chance’s face for any sign of acknowledgment, but Chance stayed silent. Mafioso’s voice dropped to a gentler tone. “You’re not just a pawn to me. You’re more than that.”

The quiet between them stretched, filled with things left unsaid. Mafioso reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Chance’s ear. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here.”

Mafioso’s words hung in the air, heavy and charged with meaning. Chance’s silence stretched, but beneath it, his eyes flickered with a storm of emotions — confusion, fear, maybe even something close to longing. Yet still, he said nothing.

Mafioso studied him quietly for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, voice softer but no less intense. “Look, sweetheart... I know this isn’t easy. You’ve been living a lie, walking a razor’s edge. But shutting me out won’t protect you.”

Chance’s hands clenched into fists on his lap, his jaw tightening, but he remained still, unwilling or unable to voice what churned inside.

Mafioso reached out again, this time letting his fingers gently rest on Chance’s wrist — a tether, a promise. “I’m not your enemy. Not anymore.”

He gave a slow, steady breath, trying to break through the walls Chance had built. 

“For what it’s worth… I care. More than I should.”

Chance’s gaze finally lifted, meeting Mafioso’s eyes. The silence remained, but in that look, a crack appeared.

Mafioso offered a small, hopeful smile. “Whenever you’re ready to let me in… I’ll be here.”

Chance’s eyes finally broke. Silent tears spilled down his cheeks, tracing hot lines as his breath hitched. He tried to look away, ashamed, but Mafioso’s hand caught his chin gently, lifting his face to meet steady, unwavering eyes. 

“It’s okay. Let it out, sweetheart. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Chance’s shoulders trembled as he gave in to the flood of emotion, the walls he’d built crumbling in the safety of Mafioso’s presence.

Mafioso pulled him into a careful embrace, fingers brushing soothing circles on his back. The quiet room filled with the sound of Chance's quiet sobs and Mafioso’s steady heartbeat, a fragile moment of trust weaving between them.

“You’re not alone.” 

Chance clung to him, the tears drying slowly as the weight on his chest eased, just a little. His sobs softened, his body still trembling in Mafioso’s arms. 

He tightened his embrace gently, as if to shield Chance from the world’s harshness. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Anything. Even the Sonno files you were assigned to extract.”

Chance’s breath hitched, the weight of those words sinking in. The impossible promise hung between them, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of lies and danger.

“I’m not asking you to choose sides. Just… let me be the one you trust. Let me protect you.”

Chance’s mind spun, torn between loyalty, fear, and a desperate longing to believe.

He didn’t speak, but in the way his body relaxed slightly, the small tilt of his head toward Mafioso, the faintest trace of tears left on his cheeks, Mafioso saw a fragile opening — a chance for something real.

Mafioso kissed the top of his head gently. 

“I love you, Chance. Not just because of what you are, or what you do… but because of who you are. Every part of you.”

His eyes searched Chance’s, vulnerable yet unwavering. “I’m not just offering you power or secrets. I’m offering you myself. All of me.”

He paused, his breath hitching slightly. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Chance’s silence hung heavy, but Mafioso’s words settled around them like a promise — one neither of them could afford to break.

“It was the gala. That night. When we met for the first time. Do you remember it?”

Chance didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him — but Mafioso could tell by the way his body stilled that he was listening.

“I do,” Mafioso went on, softer now. “You walked into the gala like you belonged to it. When you approached me, I was enthralled with you instantly. The way you carried yourself was effortless — like you weren’t there for anything but the show. And yet… you looked right at me.”

He exhaled a laugh, small and breathless. “I knew I was screwed the moment you did. I didn’t even know your name then. It didn't matter. You lit something in me I didn’t know I could feel again.”

Mafioso leaned in slightly, careful not to push Chance, just letting the truth come freely. “I tried to be careful with it. I thought maybe it would fade. That it was just some passing attraction. But every time you spoke, every time we crossed paths… it just got worse. Or better. Depends on how you look at it.”

He glanced down for a moment, almost shy despite everything they’d been through. “I fell for you, sweetheart. And I swear, it wasn’t part of some plan or a game. Not on my end.”

He looked at Chance again, eyes gentle but burning with feeling. “I know you didn’t come to me with honest intentions. I’m not naïve. But me? I meant everything we shared.”

Silence followed, heavy but not unkind. Mafioso didn’t press. He just let it hang there, waiting, hoping Chance would believe him — or at the very least, hear him.

“So you don’t have to worry about getting hurt. Not from me.”

He let the silence linger for a beat, just long enough for the weight of the words to settle.

“I know what this must feel like for you. Like you're walking on a knife’s edge, waiting for everything to collapse. But sweetheart… I couldn’t lay a hand on you if I tried. Because hurting you would be like hurting myself.”

His hand finally moved, brushing lightly over Chance’s shoulder, barely there. “You don’t owe me trust. I don’t expect it overnight. But I need you to know that I’d never betray what we’ve had. Even if it started in the wrong place, even if it was built on a lie.”

He inhaled, then spoke with quiet resolve. “What I feel for you is real. You have nothing to fear from me now. Not anger. Not punishment. Not revenge. I’m yours if you’ll have me — whether or not you ever love me back.”

“You’re safe, Chance. You’re safe with me.”

Mafioso’s gaze dropped to his hands for a moment, fingers curling slightly into his palms before relaxing again. His voice, when he spoke next, was quieter — steadier, but threaded with something deep and unwavering.

“I’ll always love you, sweetheart.” he murmured, eyes lifting back to Chance’s face. “As long as I’m breathing. That’s not going to change.”

He shifted, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, as though confessing a sacred truth to the floor between them.

“You don’t have to say it back. Hell, you don’t have to feel the same at all. I didn’t fall for you expecting anything in return. I just… did.”

A faint breath escaped him, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, rueful and warm. “Maybe I’m a fool for it. Maybe I always have been. But I don’t regret it. I could never regret you.”

“I don’t care if you run again, or push me away. I don’t care what you were here to do or who sent you. My heart was never part of that game. And now it’s not mine to take back.”

Mafioso gave a small, soft shrug. “You can hate me, lie to me, ignore me… but I’ll still love you. Quietly, if I have to. From a distance, if that’s what you need. I won’t stop.”

Chance sat still for a long, heavy moment. The weight of Mafioso’s confession pressed down on his chest like a hand he couldn’t move.

He stared at him.

At the man who should’ve been furious. The man he’d lied to, seduced, spied on. The man who now sat there, saying he’d love him anyway — no matter what. No matter how this ended.

And that was what broke him.

Chance’s throat tightened, and he swallowed, blinking too fast. “I…” His voice caught. 

He tried again. “I’m sorry.”

It was barely louder than a whisper. Chance didn’t know what part he was apologizing for — lying, hiding, hurting him — maybe all of it. Maybe just for being here at all.

His shoulders shook, not with sobs, but with something silent and bitter. His eyes never left Mafioso’s face.

“I didn’t mean for it to be like this. I didn’t mean to… to feel anything. I was just supposed to—”

Chance cut himself off and looked away, shame sinking into his bones like ice. “I wish we met under different circumstances.”

“If we had, maybe this wouldn’t hurt so much.”

He didn’t say what he would’ve done differently. Whether he would’ve stayed. Whether he wouldn’t have lied. Whether he would’ve let himself love Mafioso sooner, without the weight of secrets.

He just breathed, shaky and low, chest rising and falling with everything he wasn’t saying. 

“I would’ve liked to meet you just as me.” he whispered finally. “Not someone sent to destroy you.”

Mafioso took a breath, his eyes never leaving Chance’s face. “It wouldn’t have mattered how we met. At a gala… in the middle of a job… on the goddamn street. I still would’ve fallen for you.”

Chance looked up at him, expression unreadable — a storm behind his eyes.

Mafioso continued, “I would’ve loved you whether you were a stranger or a spy. Whether you told me the truth from the start or not.” He smiled, bittersweet. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

He reached out, brushing a knuckle gently under Chance’s chin, lifting it slightly. “You don’t have to say it back. You don’t even have to stay.”

His hand dropped, resting between them. “But I will still love you, no matter how we meet. No matter how this ends.”

Silence fell again, heavier than before.

And in that quiet, something broke in Chance’s expression — not resistance, not defiance.

Chance blinked slowly, lashes heavy with unshed tears. His throat worked around a sound he didn’t make — something trapped between a sob and silence. He didn’t pull away from Mafioso’s words, or his presence.

Mafioso stayed still too, letting the moment stretch between them like a fragile thread, waiting for it to hold or snap.

Chance finally inhaled shakily, chest trembling. “You shouldn’t love me.” 

Mafioso replied immediately. “I do.” 

Chance shook his head, but his hands gripped his knees tighter. “I lied to you. I used you. And I would’ve… if things hadn’t changed, I would’ve destroyed everything.”

“But you didn’t.”

“That doesn’t change what I am.”

“No. But it shows me who you are.”

Chance’s breath hitched.

Mafioso leaned forward slightly, keeping his hands to himself, but letting his presence wrap around Chance like warmth. “You're someone who still stayed. Who showed me warmth. That matters to me.”

Chance closed his eyes tightly, and the tears fell. Slow. Quiet. No sobbing. Just the kind of pain that seeps in like ink.

Mafioso’s voice was gentler now. “You don’t have to fight anymore, sweetheart. Not with me.”

And that endearment — sweetheart — broke something.

Chance didn't reply. He just leaned against Mafioso’s shoulder, small and exhausted, letting himself be held. 

Mafioso wrapped an arm around him, firm and steady. “Even if you walk out of this place tomorrow, I’ll still love you. Every version of you. Every truth or lie. That won’t change.”

He rested his chin lightly on Chance’s head. 

“I just hope you let me keep you.”

—

Chance lay on his side, eyes open, staring blankly at the pale wall of the bedroom. His chest rose and fell unevenly, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the windows. His fingers twitched slightly, curling into the thin sheet beneath him.

Mafioso stood by the doorway, hesitating. His gaze flickered between Chance’s still form and the open door behind him. The weight of everything—words unspoken, secrets kept, the tangled mess of their lives—hung heavy in the silence between them.

Just as Mafioso was about to step away, Chance’s voice broke the quiet. It was low, barely more than a whisper.

“Stay. Please.”

The single word struck Mafioso harder than he expected. He froze, caught off guard by the vulnerability packed into that simple request.

He turned fully to face Chance. “You want me to stay?” 

Chance didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he gave a small nod. 

Mafioso swallowed, the tension in his chest easing just a little. Without saying another thing, he closed the door behind him with a soft click.

He moved carefully to the side of the bed and sat down, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight. He didn’t reach out, didn’t speak—he just stayed there, steady and present.

Chance shifted again, still not looking at him, but the tension in his shoulders softened just a bit. For the first time in hours, the tight knot in his chest loosened, just enough to breathe.

They settled into the quiet together. Mafioso kept his eyes on Chance, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath. “Whatever you need, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Chance’s hand hovered uncertainly for a moment before finally moving—slow and deliberate—toward Mafioso’s. 

When their fingers met, Chance wrapped his hand around Mafioso’s with surprising gentleness, a quiet vulnerability in the gesture that caught Mafioso completely off guard.

Mafioso’s eyes widened slightly, his breath catching for a brief second. Then, that sharp edge of surprise melted away, replaced by a soft warmth that spread through him. He turned his hand just a little, tightening his grip ever so slightly, careful not to rush or startle.

A slow, genuine smile blossomed on Mafioso’s lips—a rare, unguarded expression that seemed to say more than words ever could. He gave Chance’s hand a gentle squeeze, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face.

Mafioso’s smile softened into something more tender, tinged with a hint of regret. His grip on Chance’s hand lingered, as if afraid to let go.

“I made everything complicated, didn’t I?” he murmured, voice low and rough with emotion. “By falling for you.”

He glanced down at their entwined hands, then back up to Chance’s face. “But… I can’t help it. Not when it’s you.”

Mafioso’s words hung in the air between them, fragile and honest. Chance didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull his hand away either. 

Slowly, their breathing synced, steady and calm. Mafioso shifted gently, leaning back against the headboard while still holding Chance’s hand. Chance’s eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion finally catching up to him.

Without a word, the silence deepened into peace. The city lights outside dimmed as night stretched on, and eventually, they both drifted into sleep — side by side, hands still entwined.

Chapter Text

As Chance sat quietly, the morning light washing over him, the door creaked open softly. Mafioso stepped in, a small bouquet of red roses in his hand, approaching slowly.

“The red rose,” Mafioso said quietly, kneeling beside the bed, “isn’t just about passion. It’s about courage. To be honest, to take risks, and to protect what matters most.” He paused, meeting Chance’s eyes. “I brought these because… I want to be like that for you.”

Chance looked down at the blooms, their velvety petals glowing softly in the morning light.

—

The day stretched on quietly in Mafioso’s penthouse. Chance remained mostly silent, his thoughts heavy. Yet, despite the weight he carried, he still responded to Mafioso’s gentle requests without resistance.

Mafioso settled beside him on the couch. “You don’t have to say much, sweetheart. Just being here… it’s enough.”

Chance glanced at him briefly, then looked away. “I’m… trying.”

Mafioso’s hand found Chance’s, fingers curling gently around his. “I know.”

A faint sigh escaped Chance. “It’s just hard. Everything feels like it’s closing in.”

Mafioso nodded, voice soft but sure. “We’ll face it all together. One day at a time.”

Chance’s eyes met his again, and for the first time that day, a small, almost imperceptible nod acknowledged the promise between them. “Okay.”

Mafioso’s eyes lingered on Chance, tracing every line and shadow of his face as if memorizing the details. 

He smiled—a rare, genuine smile that softened the sharp edges of his usual intensity. “You’re so handsome, sweetheart.” 

Chance’s breath hitched slightly, his gaze flickering away for a moment before returning to meet Mafioso’s. 

“You don’t have to say anything back,” Mafioso added softly, squeezing Chance’s hand just a little tighter. “I just want you to know… I see you. All of you.”

Chance’s breath hitched suddenly, a shaky exhale breaking the fragile quiet between them.

Without warning, tears spilled down his cheeks—silent, trembling streams. His hands clenched into fists on his lap, as if trying to hold himself together, but the flood was too strong.

Mafioso’s eyes immediately softened with concern, his hand moving instinctively to cup Chance’s cheek, his thumb gently wiping away the tears. “Shh, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

Chance’s shoulders shook, the weight of everything crashing down at once. He pressed his face into Mafioso’s palm, seeking refuge in the warmth, but the tears kept coming.

“I’m sorry. I never wanted to make you feel like this. I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through… for making this so complicated.”

Chance didn’t answer. He just cried harder as Mafioso held him steady, his own heart aching at the sight of Chance breaking apart before him.

“I love you. More than I ever thought I could. And I’ll carry the weight for both of us if it means you don’t have to.”

The room felt heavy. But in that moment, all that mattered was the steady presence beside him—the promise that no matter how broken things felt, he wouldn’t have to face it alone.

Chance’s tears showed no sign of slowing, falling freely down his cheeks. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, and his breath hitched repeatedly, ragged and uneven. No matter how much Mafioso held him, whispered promises or gentle touches, the flood inside Chance seemed endless—too much pain, too much fear to simply stop.

Mafioso’s arms tightened around him, careful and unwavering, offering what comfort he could. “It’s okay,” he murmured softly, voice thick with empathy. “Let it out. I’m here. You don’t have to hide anything from me.”

Chance buried his face deeper into Mafioso’s chest, seeking refuge, but the tears kept coming, a release long overdue. 

Mafioso’s fingers gently brushed through Chance’s hair, a silent vow to stay through every tear, every shiver of vulnerability. 

Because sometimes love meant simply being present when words couldn’t reach.

Mafioso’s voice was low and heavy with emotion as he held Chance close, the warmth of his breath brushing against Chance’s temple. 

“When that night happened between us, I was so happy. So damn happy that I could barely contain it.” He tightened his arms gently around Chance, as if trying to hold on to the memory as much as to the man himself. “I thought that night would be the only night we’d ever be able to be that close. That it was a one-time thing—maybe a moment in a world that didn’t want us to have more.”

His fingers brushed softly through Chance’s damp hair, careful not to disturb the fragile state he was in. “So I went at it for so long, because I was scared. Scared that I wouldn’t get to hold you again. I didn’t want to waste a second of that night, didn’t want to let go without leaving everything I had with you.”

Chance’s sobs softened. Mafioso kissed the top of his head gently, the desperate need to hold on was all that mattered. 

“I’ll always want to hold you, sweetheart. No matter what comes next.”

—

The morning light filtered softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting a pale glow over the room where Mafioso still lay awake. The space on the bed beside him was empty. 

Chance had slipped away without a word.

Mafioso’s chest tightened with a sudden, sharp pang of loss. His fingers instinctively reached out, as if to grasp the space Chance had occupied, but found nothing but air. The quiet silence that had settled over the penthouse was deafening. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, trying to make sense of the ache twisting inside him.

He thought about the night before — the raw confessions, the fragile moments where they’d both let down their walls. He had dared to hope, even just a little, that Chance might stay. 

He rose from the bed and moved to the window, staring out over the city that never truly slept. The skyline looked different this morning — less vibrant, somehow muted, as if the light itself mourned Chance’s absence. Mafioso’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to chase him, didn’t want to push too hard. But a part of him screamed in silence, desperate for a sign that Chance might come back.

He clenched his fists at his sides, the possessiveness he’d shown in the bedroom now twisting into a quiet desperation. “Come back. I’m not done with you. Not like this.”

But the only answer was stillness. And Mafioso was left alone with his thoughts, the stubborn hope that this wasn’t the end.

Mafioso’s shoulders trembled as the weight of Chance’s absence finally broke through his carefully maintained composure. The hard, cold mask he wore crumbled in the solitude of the penthouse.

A single, raw sob escaped from deep within him, shaking his chest. His eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, filled with tears that spilled freely down his cheeks. The grief was a quiet helplessness that clawed at his heart relentlessly.

He sank down to the floor, back against the cold glass window, tears blurring the cityscape outside. The sight of the sprawling skyline couldn’t comfort him now; it only reminded him how vast the distance between them had become.

“Why did you leave without a word? I didn’t want this to end like this... Not like this.”

—

Mafioso’s hand hovered over the doorbell for a brief moment before he pressed it firmly. The soft chime echoed through Chance’s apartment. Moments later, the door creaked open, and there he was—Chance, looking tired.

Without hesitation, Mafioso stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. Before Chance could react, Mafioso pulled him into a firm embrace, his voice low and steady.

“Why did you leave without a word? I was worried about you, sweetheart.”

Chance stiffened for a moment, then slowly relaxed into the hug, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Mafioso’s arms tightened around him, conveying all the concern and care he’d kept bottled up.

“I just... needed space.” 

Chance pulled away from the hug, a soft sigh escaping him as he glanced toward the kitchen. The small space was dim, but the familiar sight brought a flicker of comfort.

“I’m going to cook.” Chance said quietly, turning toward the stove.

Mafioso followed him without hesitation, watching as Chance moved around the kitchen. Ingredients were gathered, knives chopped deftly, and soon the warm aroma of food began to fill the apartment.

“Cooking for one is lonely,” Mafioso murmured, settling against the counter. “But cooking for two—that’s something I want.”

Chance glanced over, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “Then you better stick around. I’m not making extra food for no one.”

Mafioso chuckled softly, the tension between them easing further. “I’m staying.”

As Chance moved through the kitchen, chopping vegetables and stirring sauces, Mafioso slipped quietly behind him. Without a word, he wrapped his arms gently around Chance’s waist, resting his chin softly on Chance’s shoulder.

Chance paused for a moment, the warmth of Mafioso’s embrace settling over him like a shield against the world outside. His hands slowed, but didn’t stop, as a calm steadiness spread through him.

“You’re really here.” 

Mafioso’s arms tightened slightly around Chance’s waist. The steady rhythm of Chance’s breath against his neck eased some of the tension that had been coiled tightly inside him for days. 

For a moment, the world outside—the mission, the danger—faded into nothing but the warmth between them.

Chance leaned back slightly, resting his head against Mafioso’s shoulder. His hands, which had been gripping the knife a little too tightly, now moved with more ease, chopping and stirring in a quiet rhythm. Mafioso’s presence was a silent reassurance, a promise without words that whatever happened next, he wouldn’t face it alone.

“I don’t know how to do this. Being with you. It’s... complicated.”

Mafioso’s lips curved into a gentle smile as he tightened his hold, tilting Chance’s chin up just enough so he could look into his eyes. “Love is always complicated. But it’s worth every risk, every fear.”

Chance’s gaze wavered, but the faintest spark of hope shone through. “I’m scared. Scared of losing everything... scared of losing you.”

Mafioso pressed a soft kiss to Chance’s temple, the warmth of his lips a balm to the ache in Chance’s chest. “I don’t care about the risks. I’m here because I love you. And as long as I’m breathing, I’m not letting you go.”

Chance took a deep breath, the words heavy on his tongue but finally breaking free. He turned in Mafioso’s arms, meeting his gaze.

“I love you too. I’ve been scared to say it... scared of what it means, scared of what might come next. But I do. I love you.”

Mafioso’s eyes softened, a slow smile spreading across his face. He cupped Chance’s cheek gently, thumb brushing over the skin.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” Mafioso whispered. “We’ll face everything together. I promise.”

Chance let himself lean into the warmth of Mafioso’s touch, the tension in his chest finally easing into something like peace. For the first time, he felt seen—not just for the mission, not just as a player in some dangerous game, but as someone worthy of love.

“I want to try.” Chance said, voice barely above a whisper. “To be with you. To see where this goes.”

Mafioso pulled him closer, their foreheads resting together in a quiet moment of understanding. “Then we’ll take it one day at a time, sweetheart. Together.”

Chance smiled softly, still nestled against Mafioso’s chest as he turned back toward the stove. The kitchen was now quiet except for the gentle clatter of utensils and the soft hiss of the frying pan. Mafioso stayed close behind him, hands resting lightly on Chance’s hips, their warmth grounding him.

“Pass me the salt, will you?” Chance murmured, reaching for a small jar.

Mafioso obeyed, handing it over without breaking contact. “You’re really good at this.” 

Chance chuckled, a genuine sound that seemed to surprise both of them. “I’ve had some practice.”

They worked side by side, the earlier tension melting into a comfortable rhythm. Mafioso stirred the sauce while Chance chopped vegetables, their movements syncing without a word. 

“You know I could get used to cooking with you.”

Chance glanced back at him, a teasing glint in his eye. “Careful, or I might start expecting breakfast in bed every day.”

Mafioso laughed softly, leaning down to press a kiss behind Chance’s ear. “I’d like that very much, sweetheart.”

—

They finished cooking, the kitchen now filled with the warm aroma of their meal. Mafioso carefully set the plates on the small dining table while Chance poured two glasses of wine. Sitting down opposite each other, they exchanged shy smiles.

With each bite, their conversation grew easier—little stories, shared laughs, and tentative plans for the future. Mafioso’s hand found Chance’s across the table, fingers intertwining naturally. After dinner, they moved to the couch, settling close, the city lights casting a soft glow through the window.

They spent the afternoon wrapped in quiet conversation, leaning into each other’s presence. Mafioso brushed a stray lock of hair from Chance’s face, and Chance rested his head against Mafioso’s shoulder. Time slipped by unnoticed as they shared gentle touches and whispered words.

As evening turned to night, they cuddled beneath a cozy blanket, feeling the comfort of finally being together without pretense. In the safety of each other’s arms, they found peace—two hearts learning to heal, one gentle moment at a time.

Mafioso reached over and gently took Chance’s hand in his. His thumb brushed slowly along Chance’s knuckles.

A quiet moment passed before Mafioso spoke, voice low and uncharacteristically tender. “You make me feel complete,” he said, almost like a confession. “Like… like something inside me finally makes sense when I’m with you.”

Chance’s eyes widened slightly, the weight of the words settling over him. But Mafioso wasn’t looking for a response—he only smiled softly, keeping his gaze on their intertwined fingers.

“I don’t care how we met or what we were supposed to be,” he continued. “All I know is, I feel whole when I’m with you. And I don’t want to let that go.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, sunlight spilled softly across the sheets, casting golden lines across bed. Mafioso stirred slowly, a hand instinctively reaching out to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty and cold. He sat up.

“Chance?” 

No answer was heard.

At first, he stared at the ceiling. Then, he stood up and checked every room of the penthouse, but found no trace of the other man. Unfortunately for Chance, it wasn't sadness that overtook him this time. It was fury, maybe heartbreak.

Then, on the marble countertop of the kitchen, a folded slip of paper. Mafioso’s fingers trembled as he reached for it. 

You shouldn’t love me. Not in this lifetime.

“Goddamnit!”

He grabbed his coat, pacing, running a hand through his hair as he tried to calm himself, but the trembling in his hands wouldn’t stop. “He thinks he can just disappear on me? After everything?”

Mafioso stormed out into the living room, heart pounding. His phone was in his hand before he knew it, dialing Azure.

“Find him.” Mafioso said. “I don’t care how long it takes. I want to know where he went. I want to know why he left.” 

His voice cracked. “…And I want to know if he’s okay.”

He hung up. Then turned toward the window, fists clenched at his sides, breath shaking with something worse than anger. “You said you'd be mine, sweetheart. Why did you lie?”

—

The air was cold in the alley behind some hotel. Chance leaned against the brick wall, hood pulled low, breath shaking as he looked down at his hands. Hands that he could still feel on his skin. 

He had slipped out before dawn. 

A romance born out of a night they were never meant to have.

He walked aimlessly through the city now, avoiding security cameras, burner phone in one pocket. 

You said you loved him. You let him say he’d marry you. You let him give you everything.

Chance scoffed bitterly, closing his eyes as the cold wind lashed against him. “God, I’m so stupid. It was just a night. Maybe a couple. That’s all it ever was.”

That was the truth he held onto now.

Not the way Mafioso whispered to him like the world would crumble without him. Not the way their fingers intertwined. Not the promises made in the dark, in a penthouse too quiet for its own good.

It was just a night, a job gone too far. Chance wasn’t someone’s sweetheart, wasn’t made for love.

Chance is a spy, a liar, a tool. And tools don’t get happy endings.

—

The Forsaken building wasn’t a building that stood out. From the outside, it looked like any other corporate tower in the city. Inside held something more secretive. Chance walked the long hallway. 

At the end of the corridor stood Guest, arms folded. Beside him, Shedletsky leaned against the wall with that same mischievous smirk, eyes flicking up to Chance with both amusement and relief.

“Would you look at that?” Guest said. “Back in one piece.”

Shedletsky whistled low. “Damn. I was half-convinced you’d vanished for good.”

Chance just chuckled. He then reached into his coat and pulled out a flash drive, and held it up between his fingers. “The Sonno files. Extracted and scrubbed. No trails.”

Guest took it, flipping it in his hand like it was some prized trophy. “You really did it against every odd.”

“You got close.” Shedletsky said more softly. “Too close, maybe.”

Chance scoffed. “Maybe.”

Guest noticed, of course. “You didn’t catch feelings, did you?” he asked, half-teasing.

“No.”

Shedletsky only gave him a tired, knowing look.

Guest, satisfied, pocketed the drive. “Well. You’re back. That’s what matters. Another job well done, Chance.”

“Always.”

—

The moment Mafioso got confirmation that the Sonno files were extracted—something shifted inside him.

The heartbreak disappeared. Rage.

The kind of rage that didn’t scream or shatter things. The kind that simmered like magma beneath calm words and deadly intentions. The kind that didn’t just want answers.

It wanted retribution.

He stared at the encrypted terminal in front of him, the blinking report Azure just decrypted for him.

“I regret to inform you of this, Mafioso. But Chance unfortunately extracted the company files. I got a record here that indicates so. I’d say he already handed it over to whoever his boss is.”

Mafioso shut the call. He didn’t move for a moment. Then he slowly sat back, exhaled, and laughed low and humorlessly. “So that’s what it was.” he muttered. “All of it. The looks. The confessions. The sex.”

He stood up. Pushed the chair back with a harsh scrape. “I did tell you that I'd give them to you. I told you I would.”

He turned, striding across the room. “But I wasn’t going to. Not really. I just said that because I thought…”

He paused at the bar. Grabbed a glass, poured the whiskey so hard it sloshed over the rim. “I thought I loved you.”

The words burned more than the liquor.

He downed the drink in one go, then hurled the glass across the room. It shattered like the trust he'd built around Chance. “You took me for a fool.”

But he wasn’t yelling. This wasn’t just heartbreak anymore. It was war.

He strode to his desk and picked up his phone and dialed Azure again.

Azure answered immediately. “Boss?”

“Put everything else on hold.”

“…Everything?”

“I want intel on Chance. Every movement since he arrived in this city. Every file, every handler, every lie . And get me a map of Forsaken’s headquarters.”

“Are we going in?”

Mafioso's voice turned ice cold.

“We’re burning it.”

—

There were few times in Mafioso’s life when he wanted someone gone. But this time, he wanted it personally . Not out of business. Not out of strategy. Not even for dominance.

But for the betrayal that left his chest aching and his pride crushed.

Chance was a man who looked at him like he saw through him. The spy who whispered love between sheets and lied through every kiss.

He was done playing the fool.

Mafioso lit a cigarette between his lips, his hands steady. He exhaled smoke like venom, eyes flicking over every photo Azure sent—Chance outside Forsaken’s building. Chance on rooftops. Chance at cafes, holding a burner phone, doing god knows what.

It was all there. Every truth he tried to blind himself from.

He stared hard at one image of Chance smiling. It made his stomach churn.

“You think you can just disappear and walk away clean?” Mafioso murmured, setting the photo down. “You think you can fuck me, lie to me, and vanish?”

He opened the drawer and pulled out a pistol. “I don’t care how sweet your lips were. Or how warm you felt at night. That’s gone. Just like you.”

He turned to Azure, who stood quietly near the balcony.

“Get me his latest location.”

Azure hesitated for a second. “Are you sure?”

Mafioso’s jaw clenched. “He extracted the Sonno files. Which I never intended to hand over.”

“You told him you would.”

“I fucking lied!” Mafioso snapped. “And he out-lied me. That’s not love. That’s treason.”

His voice was low. But beneath his anger was hurt. The kind that would never be spoken aloud again.

He tucked the pistol into his coat. “He’ll never fool me again.” Mafioso said quietly. “Not in this lifetime.”

—

The night was heavy with silence, only broken by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in Mafioso’s study. Outside, the city lights blinked like embers, indifferent to the fire building in his chest.

He stood by the window, gloved fingers curling around a tumbler of untouched whiskey. His reflection stared back at him—tired, sharp, and utterly done with being played.

Azure stood at attention, just inside the door, eyes unreadable.

“Track him.”

Azure didn’t blink. “You want him dead?”

Mafioso paused, lips tightening.

“No,” he said. Then he looked at Azure through the window’s reflection. “Not yet.”

Azure stayed silent, waiting.

“I want to know where he goes. Who he sees. What he’s planning.” Mafioso’s tone turned icy. “Don’t confront him. Don’t touch him. Just watch.”

“No doubt he’ll use the files against us.”

“He’s with Forsaken.” Mafioso turned now, slowly. “He already has.”

There was something dangerous in his eyes—controlled, but far from calm. “And if they think I’ll let that slide, they’ve forgotten who I am.”

“Understood.”

Mafioso stepped forward, placing a hand on Azure’s shoulder briefly.

“You’re the only one I trust with this.”

Azure gave a short nod. “Don’t worry, Maf.”

Mafioso’s grip lingered. Then fell away. “I’m not asking you to bring him back.” he added, quieter now. “Just… don’t let him vanish again. If I see him—when I see him—I’ll decide then.”

A flicker of something else crossed his face. Something deeply buried. But it was gone as soon as it came.

“Dismissed.”

As Azure left, Mafioso turned back to the skyline. The glass was cold against his knuckles.

“You really think I’ll just let you walk away, sweetheart?”

He exhaled slowly. “No. Not this time.”

—

The fluorescent lights of the building buzzed low, and the air smelled faintly of metal and paper. Chance sat across from Guest in the debriefing room, his fingers tightening slightly around the cup of cold water he hadn’t touched.

“He’ll come after me.” Chance said finally, his voice quiet. “I took the files. He knows.”

Guest didn’t react immediately. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, eyes hidden behind his usual mask of neutrality.

“You’re certain?”

Chance nodded. “He’s not the type to let betrayal slide. He won’t say it outright, but… I know how he works. If I were in his shoes, I wouldn’t forgive me either.”

Guest tilted his head. “And do you regret it?”

Chance stared at the table. “It doesn’t matter.”

Another pause. Then Guest stood up, walking slowly to the locked drawer across the room. He keyed it open and pulled out a sealed envelope marked, RELOCATION *****.

“You’re going dark.” Guest said flatly. “Now. I’ll have Shedletsky arrange for your transfer immediately.”

Chance blinked. “What?”

“We’ve had agents hunted before. By warlords. By rival agencies. Even former friends.” Guest said, sliding the envelope across the table. “You’ll go to ***** . It’s where we send agents when being found is a death sentence.”

“…Has it ever been discovered?”

“No.” Guest’s voice was cold steel. “Not once. Even we don’t track it live. Once you go there, you disappear.”

Chance hesitated.

Guest leaned in, voice dropping lower. “You did good work. You pulled something no one else could have. But right now, you’re a liability. And if what you’re saying about him is true…”

Chance lowered his gaze.

“…then we can’t risk it.”

A quiet beat passed between them.

“Is there someone you want to say goodbye to?” Guest asked, surprisingly gentle.

Chance shook his head.

Guest gave a slow nod. “Understood.”

He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway.

“For what it’s worth… he’s not the first man to fall for someone dangerous. Just don’t be the one who lets that feeling destroy you.” Then he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Chance sat still for a moment longer before finally reaching for the envelope.

—

The car ride had taken hours—through hills, service roads, and a detour past a vineyard that no longer existed on any map. By the time Chance arrived, the moon was settling in.

***** looked nothing like a “safehouse.” It looked like a billionaire’s retirement home. It contained marble pillars, a grand fountain, and ivy climbing the outer walls like it had always belonged there. A manor worthy of magazine covers and whispered rumors.

But as the guards at the gate silently nodded him in and the butlers welcomed him like clockwork, Chance knew better that this was camouflage, a fortress dressed in luxury.

He didn’t say much. Just nodded when spoken to, followed the head butler’s polite gestures. Eventually, he was escorted to a suite on the third floor—huge, opulent, too pristine for someone who had lost sleep and trust both.

Once the door shut behind him, Chance sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, pulled out the new encrypted phone Guest had issued him, and scrolled to a contact he’d memorized by heart. 007n7.

He didn’t bother with formalities.

made it to the safehouse. 

it’s disguised as a mansion. feels like a ghost house tho. i think it’s the kind of place where time slows down.

There was a typing pause—then a reply flashed on the screen of the phone.

*****? damn. not even i can trace that place unless i’m actively invited in. you okay?

1. but i’m alive.

shit. hang on. video calling.

The phone vibrated once before switching over.

Chance sat up straighter as 007n7’s face came into view. His hacker friend’s familiar smirk was softened by concern, blue light flickering over his face from multiple monitors.

“You look like hell.” 007n7 said.

“I feel like I left a war.” 

“Yeah, well, you kinda did.” 007n7 leaned back in his chair, chewing on the end of a pen. “So… he’s pissed?”

Chance nodded slowly. “He’ll try to find me. And I think this time, he won’t hesitate.”

“You still love him?”

Chance looked down. “That doesn’t matter anymore.”

007n7 watched him for a moment. “You did the job. You did what Guest asked. And from what I heard, you cracked the entire Sonno division wide open. You’re a legend now.”

“I don’t want to be a legend.” Chance said quietly. “I just wanted…”

Silence stretched between them.

007n7 didn’t push. He simply leaned closer, voice quieter. “Well… you’re not alone. You got me. And I don’t care if this place is untraceable—I’ll keep tabs on everything for you.”

Chance managed a small, exhausted smile. “Thanks.”

“I’ll run some heat maps soon. See if anyone’s poking close to the perimeter. If he comes within a mile of that house, I’ll know.”

“Alright.”

“And, hey—next time you fall for someone?” 007n7 added, half-teasing, “Pick someone less, uh, mafia.”

Chance laughed faintly. The first real laugh he had in days.

—

The manor was quiet. Too quiet, in fact. The kind of quiet that crawled under the skin and made Chance feel like a wrong move would snap it.

He wandered through the wide, gilded halls of the manor, his footsteps softened by the carpets. Classical paintings hung from every wall, and sunlight filtered in through floor-length windows. The staff greeted him with professional, distant smiles.

It was beautiful. But it wasn’t peace.

Chance walked through the marble atrium, past the indoor garden, and up the winding staircase until he reached the east wing’s private balcony. The breeze was cool. Distant mountains stretched under a violet sky, and the outer gate was a faint shape far below.

He leaned on the railing, eyes scanning the horizon.

And then an explosion occured. It explosion tore through the northern courtyard.

Smoke rose instantly, dark and violent. Screams echoed from the guards, and in a blur of black suits and polished rifles, they scrambled to take position. Orders were yelled. The air filled with alarms. Lights flickered across the walls as emergency lockdown protocols activated.

Chance’s blood ran cold.

He gripped the balcony railing, heart hammering.

Through the smoke, through the chaos, he saw him.

Mafioso. Standing tall amidst the blaze, coat flaring behind him, shoulders squared. The burning wreckage illuminated his face furious. His eyes locked onto Chance’s immediately, even from this distance.

Chance froze. And so did Mafioso. It was only a second—two hearts across a battlefield—but it said everything.

Then Chance turned and ran. He sprinted down the corridor, nearly colliding with a butler diving for cover. He yanked the encrypted phone from his pocket, frantically unlocking it.

 red heat spike approaching north. multiple hits. possible hostiles. pls read this now
i think it’s him

“Shit—shit—” Chance hissed, already vaulting over a knocked-over chair.

He typed as he moved.

it’s him. he’s here. He bombed the fucking courtyard. we saw each other.

007n7 started typing back immediately.

GET. OUT.
i’ve got an exfil route on standby. take the south tunnel. now.

Chance bolted through the grand hall, staff and guards scrambling around him. Behind the mansion’s reinforced walls, gunfire had started to echo. 

As he veered toward the south exit, the last thing Chance saw, just before ducking down the secret tunnel hatch, was smoke filling the balcony where he had stood, and the shape of Mafioso climbing toward the upper floors like a storm in human form.

His face unreadable, and his rage unmistakable.

Chance ducked into the west wing corridor, the smoke already licking through the upper floor vents. Shouts echoed from the guards as more explosions rocked the perimeter. Mafioso wasn’t charging in like a brute. He was invading like he owned the damn place.

Chance skidded into his room. His emergency bag was already on the bed ready for a moment like this. But his hand reached under the pillow first. His pistol, a standard-issue for Forsaken field agents.

He stared at it for a second. He hated this. He hated that he needed this. That he might have to use it on him.

He closed his eyes briefly, then tucked the pistol into his waistband, under his jacket. Chance grabbed the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Another explosion shook the walls.

Dust fell from the ceiling. So he moved.

—

In the hallway, everything was chaos. One of the manor's maids lay crouched behind an upturned table, eyes wide. Guards had formed a defensive perimeter near the front entrance, but the real battle hadn’t broken through yet.

Chance wasn’t going to wait for it to.

He darted into the panel behind the wine shelf, a hidden tunnel hatch coded to his agent clearance. The scanner blinked green and the panel hissed open.

“South tunnel active.” 007n7’s voice cracked through his earpiece. “The exit leads you into the treeline. I’ll have extraction 3 klicks east. I’m staying with you on the line.”

Chance dropped into the darkness.

Behind him, the mansion trembled again. Gunfire, voices shouting his name. And somewhere in the smoke upstairs, a voice he knew better than his own heart—calling him out.

However down in the tunnel, the sound was muffled. The only thing left was his breath, the slap of his boots on concrete, and the weight of the gun against his side.

His fingers brushed the grip once. Chance didn’t want to use it.

But if he saw Mafioso again if he pointed a gun at him, would he hesitate? 

He didn’t have an answer.

“ETA on that extraction?” he muttered into his earpiece, breath ragged.

“Two minutes.” 007n7 replied, calm despite the chaos. “You’re gonna hit the treeline soon. Heat maps show they haven’t spread that far yet, but he’s close.”

“Yeah, okay.” Chance murmured.

Chapter Text

The glass doors of the manor shattered beneath the blast charge. Mafioso stepped in with his coat flaring behind him, armed men flanking both sides. The once-beautiful foyer was littered with debris, smoke trailing up the chandelier.

Guards rushed toward him.

“Non-lethal!” he shouted at his own men, voice sharp. “I want him alive!”

He was here to find.

A guard lunged at him. He grabbed the rifle, twisted the man’s wrist, and sent him to the ground with a brutal strike.

His eyes swept the corridors. “Search every room. Check every door. I want him before he disappears again.”

“Sir!” One of his men appeared beside him, breathless. “The tunnel's been triggered. He’s already on the escape route.”

Mafioso’s chest clenched. “Fuck…”

—

The tunnel exit split open, revealing cold air and dark woods ahead. Chance didn’t pause. He shot out from the trapdoor, running into the forest, weaving between trees. Twigs snapped beneath his boots. His lungs ached.

“Ten o’clock from you.” 007n7 said. “You’ll see a flare in thirty seconds. That’s me.”

“Got it.”

He was almost there.

“Chance!”

Chance froze. That voice.

Mafioso.

He spotted him just as the agent burst into the clearing, the moonlight catching in Chance’s hair. Mafioso broke through the trees seconds later.

“Stop!” he called. “Don’t run again—please!”

But Chance didn’t slow down. His body moved on instinct—training overriding heartache.

“Don’t go—” Mafioso’s voice cracked. “Don’t go like this!”

No answer. Just the crunch of leaves and the sound of a helicopter approaching in the distance.

Chance couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. If he looked back, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to leave again.

The flare lit up ahead. 007n7 was waving him toward the rising extraction drone, so he sprinted harder. Behind him, Mafioso’s footsteps pounded the forest floor.

Chance reached the flare. Jumped onto the open bay of the stealth hover, and 007n7 helped pull him in, closing the hatch afterwards.

Mafioso reached the clearing seconds too late.

—

The roar of the hovercraft disappeared into the clouds. Its fading echo was the last thread tethering Mafioso to what little patience he had left.

He stood in the middle of the forest clearing, chest heaving, knuckles bloodied from brushing past stone and tree. His coat was torn. One of his gloves had been dropped back in the tunnel. And still, all he could do was stare up at the sky—at the shrinking shadow of the escape vessel that stole Chance away again.

He exhaled, but it wasn’t relief. It was a growl. His men waited in the treeline, hesitant.  Then he turned, walking past them in silence, his footsteps controlled. 

“Mafioso… what now?”

Mafioso didn’t even look at Noli. He pulled off his torn coat, threw it to the ground, and finally spoke. “We go to war.”

The manor behind him was still in disarray. Guards groaning in pain. Smoke from the explosives climbing toward the trees. But none of that mattered now.

The second-in-command, Azure—approached quietly. “Boss… he escaped, didn't he?”

Mafioso didn’t respond right away. He unholstered his sidearm. Checked the chamber. Snapped it back in with practiced ease. “He got what he came for. Those fucking files. I told him he could have them one day. But I never meant it. Not truly. Guess that was my mistake.”

A bitter laugh escaped his throat. “I lied. But he lied better.”

He glanced toward the sky again. His eyes—once soft and lost when Chance was in his arms—were now sharp and furious. “He used me. Played house. Whispered promises and wore guilt like it was nothing. But this… this was the real goal, wasn’t it?”

Mafioso paced slowly now, a fire growing behind every word. “You can only break a man like me once, Azure. And he did.”

He stopped and turned. And for a fleeting moment, his voice cracked with something closer to heartbreak than hate. “I would’ve handed him the world. I was going to build a future with him. I was going to marry that man.”

“Now I’ll burn the ground he walks on.”

—

The helicopter’s cabin was dimly lit, humming softly as it cut through the night sky. Chance sat by the window, knees drawn up, fingers gripping the edge of his jacket. His eyes were distant—reflecting the dark forest below, the flames and smoke still visible far behind.

007n7 manned the pilot’s console with steady hands but kept glancing at Chance through the rearview monitor.

“Hey.” 007n7 said softly, breaking the silence. “You’re safe now.”

Chance’s voice was low, barely a whisper. “Safe… but not free.”

He swallowed hard, the weight of the mission and the man he’d left behind pressing on his chest like iron.

“You think he’ll come after you again?”

Chance nodded slowly. “He’s pissed. More than I’ve ever seen. And… I’m the one who broke him.”

007n7 gave a small, understanding sigh. “You did what you had to do. But I get it… this isn’t just business anymore.”

Chance’s jaw tightened. “It never was.”

The helicopter banked toward the city lights, a distant promise of shelter and new dangers.

“Whatever happens next.” 007n7 said. “You're not alone. I’m here.”

Chance finally let his guard down, a weary, grateful smile touching his lips. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Chance’s phone suddenly vibrated sharply in his hand. He glanced down to see the screen flashing. Guest was calling. With a reluctant breath, he answered.

“Chance.” Guest’s voice was cold, clipped, but with a thread of urgency woven in. “You need to report to Forsaken immediately. We heard about what happened to the safehouse.”

Chance ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking toward the dark city skyline rushing closer. “Understood. I’m on my way.”

Guest didn’t offer any pleasantries. “Tell 007n7 to come as well.”

“Will do.”

—

Chance’s boots echoed through the sterile corridors of Forsaken. He entered the glass-walled conference room to find Guest already waiting, followed by 007n7 who also entered the room. 

Guest’s gaze locked onto Chance. “Sit down. We need to talk about the files you extracted—and what this means for all of us.”

And so Chance did, with 007n7 sitting beside him.

“We’ve gone through the files you extracted.” Guest began, voice steady but heavy with implication. “And your instincts were right. Sonno isn’t just involved in illegal activities—they’re at the heart of a sprawling web of corruption.”

Guest tapped the screen, highlighting a series of financial transactions. “Bribes to government officials, laundering through shell companies, arms deals disguised as medical shipments. They’ve manipulated every system to stay untouchable.”

He paused, letting the weight of the revelation settle. “This confirms everything we feared—and it means Sonno is far more dangerous than we imagined.”

Chance sat forward, the cold reality sinking in. “So, they’re worse than we thought.”

Guest nodded. “Worse—and smarter. They have eyes everywhere.”

“We need to decide our next move carefully.” Guest said, locking eyes with Chance. “Because Sonno won’t go down without a fight.”

After the meeting ended, Chance stepped out of the conference room, the weight of the Sonno files—and everything they meant—pressing down on him. His mind raced with plans and dangers, but he knew the first priority was to disappear.

He pulled a sleek black face mask over his nose and mouth, adjusting it carefully. Then, he slid on dark sunglasses, shielding his eyes from the harsh fluorescent lights and prying gazes alike.

The disguise was minimal but effective. As he moved through the corridors, every glance felt like a potential threat.

Stay sharp. Stay invisible.

Because now, with Sonno’s secrets out, he was a marked man.

Chance slipped out of the Forsaken building, his face mask and dark shades shielding him. Chance felt detached, as if moving through water. Every shadow felt like it might hide a watcher. Every passerby was a potential threat. 

He kept to the side streets, ducking into narrow alleys, weaving through the crowds, always alert, always calculating his next move. The files were a ticking bomb—evidence that could bring down Sonno but also mark him as a target for Mafioso’s wrath.

He pulled his jacket tighter around him and glanced over his shoulder, but saw only the everyday rhythm of city life.

But he knew it wouldn’t last.

—

It didn’t last.

Chance’s footsteps echoed softly as he slipped down a dim alley, heart steady but senses razor-sharp. He paused to glance over his shoulder—nothing but the usual city hum.

A shadow detached itself from the wall behind him.

“Hiding for too long, sweetheart.” The voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it sliced through the night air.

Chance froze, every muscle tightening. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Mafioso’s presence was like a cold flame at his back, unrelenting. “Thought you could run.” Mafioso murmured, his breath warm against Chance’s ear. “But you can’t hide from me forever.”

Chance’s pulse hammered in his throat as Mafioso’s fingers brushed lightly over his shoulder. His body tensed, but no words came. His fists shot out instinctively—fast, desperate. He aimed to break free, to fight his way out of Mafioso’s grip.

But Mafioso was ready. He caught each punch, his grip tightening. Chance’s strength faltered under the weight of those hands. Before Chance could react, Mafioso pulled a small cloth from his pocket—a thin, dark square soaked in a powerful sedative.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” Mafioso whispered as he pressed it firmly over Chance’s mouth and nose.

The cloth smelled faintly of almonds and something else—chemical and sweet.

Chance struggled, his vision blurring, breaths coming quicker and shallower. His limbs grew heavy. The world around him dimmed, then everything went black.

—

The light stabbed at Chance’s eyelids, dragging him unwillingly back to consciousness. His head throbbed, his mouth dry and taste bitter. Slowly, he realized the ropes into his wrists and ankles. He was tied to a heavy chair in the middle of a room.

The familiar feeling of Mafioso’s penthouse surrounded him. 

Mafioso’s eyes blazed like wildfire, the penthouse’s polished elegance barely containing the storm inside him. His jaw clenched so tight his knuckles whitened, every muscle in his body trembling with a rage that was barely controlled.

“You.” he spat the word like venom, stepping forward with heavy, measured footsteps. “You’ve been lying to me from the very start.” His voice grew louder, echoing off the walls like a thunderclap. “Using me. Using us . ”

Mafioso slammed his fist onto the glass table beside Chance’s chair, shards vibrating under the force. “You think I’m some fool? Some pawn you can manipulate? I trusted you.”

He leaned in close, his breath hot and harsh against Chance’s cheek. “You broke me. You tore down everything I was building.”

His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “Forsaken is my enemy. And you—” He hesitated for just a second, eyes burning holes through Chance. “—you are my betrayer.”

Mafioso straightened, pacing with restless fury. “If you ever thought I’d let you walk away… you’re dead wrong. You’ve made this personal now.”

His fists balled again, trembling with the effort to hold back the tempest inside. “I swear to God, if you ever try to cross me again, I’ll make you regret every choice you ever made.”

His glare pierced through the dim light, a promise of wrath and ruin. “You’re mine, Chance. Whether you like it or not.”

Chance’s eyes flashed with defiance as Mafioso’s fury bore down on him. His body tensed, struggling against the tight ropes binding him to the chair. His voice was low and rough, laced with anger and frustration. “Fuck you, Mafioso. You think I’m some damn toy to play with? I’m not your property.”

He jerked his arms, trying to loosen the ropes, his muscles burning with effort. “I’m not scared of your threats.”

His words were sharp, cutting through the tense air like a knife. “You can rage all you want, but it won’t change a thing. I’m still here, still fighting.”

He glared up at Mafioso, eyes blazing. “So what? Tie me up, threaten me? That won’t break me.”

Mafioso’s eyes darkened with a mix of fury and something deeper—possession. Without a word, he stepped forward, his hands rough but controlled as he untied Chance’s struggling wrists.

Before Chance could react, Mafioso lifted him effortlessly, carrying him like a prize or a threat. The penthouse blurred around them as Mafioso strode toward his bedroom.

With a firm but deliberate motion, Mafioso threw Chance onto the bed. Chance landed hard, breath knocked out for a moment.

But Mafioso wasn’t done. He pulled a heavy iron chain from beside the bed and, without hesitation, fastened it securely around Chance’s ankle—linking him to the bedpost.

“No more running.” Mafioso growled, his voice low and possessive. “You’re staying with me now, sweetheart.”

Chance’s chest heaved as he pushed himself up against the cold metal chain, his voice cracking with fury and desperation. “Let me go, Mafioso! I’m not your fucking prisoner!”

His eyes blazed, wild and unyielding. “You can chain me down all you want, but I’m not staying—not with you!” Chance slammed his fists against the mattress, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “This isn’t love. It’s control. And I won’t let you do this to me!”

Breathing heavy, Chance glared up, daring Mafioso to challenge his defiance.

Mafioso’s eyes darkened, unshaken by Chance’s outburst. He stepped closer, the room thick with tension and unspoken emotions. “Sweetheart.” he said, voice low but steady. “This isn’t just about control. It’s about keeping you safe. From yourself… and from the world that’s hunting you.”

He crouched beside the bed, fingers lightly tracing the chain around Chance’s ankle. “I’m not your enemy. And I’m not going anywhere.”

His gaze softened just a fraction, though the fire beneath remained. “You can shout, you can fight—but this is where you are. With me. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here.”

Mafioso’s hand reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from Chance’s forehead. “Because I love you. And I don’t want to lose you again.”

Chance’s breath came fast, every word cutting sharp. “You think this is love? It’s poison. And I swear, if you don’t let me go, I’ll make sure you regret ever crossing me.”

He glared up at Mafioso, voice low but deadly serious. “I’m not yours, Mafioso.”

Mafioso’s eyes darkened even further, the fire of anger mingling with a wounded vulnerability. He took a slow, deliberate breath before responding. “You think I’m afraid of your threats? Of your hatred?”

He leaned closer, his gaze never leaving Chance’s. “I’ve faced worse enemies than you, and I’ve survived. Because I know what I’m fighting for.” His hand reached out, gripping Chance’s chin gently but firmly, forcing their eyes to meet. “You’re not just an enemy. You’re the only one I’ve ever cared about. And I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep you.”

Chance’s eyes narrowed, flickering with fierce defiance as he pushed against the chains again, voice cold and hard. “Don’t lie to me. I don’t want your love. Hell, I want to kill you.”

A bitter, almost painful smile tugged at Mafioso’s lips. “Kill me? You’d only be destroying what’s left of yourself.” Mafioso’s voice dropped to a whisper, filled with desperate sincerity. “I don’t care if you hate me. I just want you here. Alive. With me.”

Chance’s face hardened suddenly. His voice snapped sharp and bitter, cutting through the tension. “Don’t you dare act like you know what I’m feeling.” he spat, pulling hard against the chain. “You think I’m scared? I’m fucking pissed.”

His muscles strained, ropes biting into his skin. “Let me go, Mafioso. Now. Or I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

Mafioso’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of pain beneath the fury, but his voice remained calm, controlled. “Pissed or scared, it doesn’t change a damn thing. You’re here with me. And I’m not letting you go. You think your anger will set you free? It won’t. It’ll only chain you tighter. I’m not your enemy, Chance. You think I don’t want you to be free? To live without fear?”

He reached out, fingertips grazing Chance’s arm, steady and reassuring. “But right now, this is the only way I know how to keep you safe. From them. From yourself.”

Mafioso’s voice dropped to a whisper, raw with emotion. “Fight me all you want. I’ll be here waiting.”

Chance’s jaw clenched, fury burning in his eyes as he strained against the chain. Suddenly, with a surge of will, he pushed himself up from the bed, ignoring the burning in his muscles. Determined, he took a few steps toward the door, every movement heavy with desperation.

But then, his foot caught on the chain secured to the bedpost. He stumbled, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he lost balance and nearly fell to the floor.

Mafioso’s eyes snapped to him. “Still stubborn.” Mafioso stepped closer, ready to catch him if he fell.

Chance glared, cheeks flushed with frustration, as he steadied himself. His voice cracked with anger as he glared at Mafioso, muscles still trembling from the stumble. “I’m not some pet you can keep!”

Mafioso’s eyes flared with fury, his jaw tightening like steel. “Shut up. You forget who’s in control here. This isn’t a game. And I don’t tolerate disrespect.”

His fist clenched at his side, the storm of his rage barely contained beneath the surface. “Remember that, Chance. You’re mine — whether you like it or not.”

Chance’s eyes burned with fierce defiance. Without hesitation, he lashed out, his fist swinging toward Mafioso’s jaw with raw desperation and anger.

The strike was fueled by months of pain, betrayal, and frustration — everything pent up inside him exploding in that moment.

Mafioso barely flinched, catching Chance’s wrist with a brutal grip. His gaze hardened, unyielding. “You think that’ll stop me?” Mafioso snarled, tightening his hold. “You’re fighting a war you can’t win. Fight all you want, sweetheart. You’re not going anywhere.”

Chance struggled fiercely against Mafioso’s grip, swinging and twisting with all his strength, fueled by raw desperation and anger. The room felt charged with tension, each movement a clash of wills.

But Mafioso’s patience snapped. With a sharp, stinging crack, his hand connected firmly against Chance’s cheek. The slap echoed through the penthouse, a sudden, brutal punctuation that silenced the fight—for a heartbeat.

Chance’s head jerked to the side, shock and fury flashing in his eyes as the sting burned.

Mafioso’s gaze was cold, fierce, and unyielding. “This ends now.” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “You will listen to me.”

The silence after the slap was suffocating.

Chance stood there for a moment—frozen, stunned, trembling. But then his hands curled into fists, and without warning, he surged forward with every ounce of defiance left in him.

He threw a punch—fueled by rage, betrayal, and pain—and it landed cleanly on Mafioso’s jaw.

The force of it made Mafioso’s head snap to the side. He staggered back half a step, a hand rising instinctively to his face where blood now trickled faintly from the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t get to lay your hands on me and walk away like nothing happened.” Chance spat, voice shaking. “I don’t care who you think you are.”

Mafioso straightened, the hit having done more to his pride than his body. His eyes narrowed. Something in him flickered—not just anger now, but something deeper. His jaw clenched, still tasting the copper in his mouth. “You really think you can fight your way out of this?” he said hoarsely. “After everything?”

Mafioso didn’t wipe the blood from his lip. He just stared at Chance—his breathing heavy, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with something cold and final.

“Fine.” he muttered, voice low and razor sharp. “Fine. If that’s what you want—if you’re just another fucking agent—they must’ve carved out whatever feelings you had before sending you to me.”

He took a step closer, looming. “I gave you everything. My trust. My time. My protection. My goddamn heart. But you—” He let out a bitter, almost deranged laugh. “You played me.”

Chance didn’t respond, just glared back from across the room, chained foot holding him in place.

Mafioso’s voice dropped, devoid of its usual warmth—only venom now. “You’re not special anymore. I’m done pretending you were different.”

He turned sharply, grabbing his coat from the chair and heading toward the door. He stopped just long enough to look over his shoulder, eyes cold as steel. “Enjoy your fucking chain, agent . You’re not leaving until I decide what to do with you.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

And for the first time in a long while, the penthouse felt more like a cage than a home.

Chapter Text

The door rattled in its frame with the force Mafioso had slammed it.

Chance stood frozen for a second. His heart was hammering, breath sharp and ragged in his chest. Then, as if on instinct, he tugged furiously at the chain again, metal clinking violently against its anchor in the floor.

“Goddammit!” he yelled, voice cracking. “You’re fucking insane!”

The chain wouldn’t budge.

He stumbled backward, fists clenched. His cheek throbbed where Mafioso had struck him. His knuckles were bruised from the punch he’d managed to land. But none of that compared to the bruises blooming beneath. The betrayal, the confusion, and the tangled web of emotion still choking him.

He hated the situation. He hated Forsaken. He hated Mafioso. He hated himself most of all for letting it get this far, and for letting himself feel anything.

Chance dropped to the floor, sitting with his back against the bed, chain tied around his ankle. He held his head in his hands and let out a long, trembling exhale.

“Ah, fuck this shit, I swear…”

—

Mafioso stormed down the hallway of the penthouse, chest heaving. His anger didn’t fade. He entered his private lounge and paced.

The emotions clashed inside him.

I loved you. I would’ve given you the world.

But Chance had never really been his. He was an illusion, a lie tucked behind passionate nights. An agent designed to trick him.

Mafioso poured himself a drink. It shook in his hand. He didn’t drink it. Instead, he stared out the window, watching the city beneath him. He gritted his teeth.

“Stop loving him. You better stop loving him.”

But his chest didn’t listen. It still ached like hell.

—

Mafioso stood at the door, hand curled around the handle like it was the only thing keeping him sane. His jaw was clenched, and his throat was full. He wasn’t stalling. He was fighting himself. The anger had reduced at some degree, but the ache refused to die down.

He should walk away. Leave Chance to the silence he’d earned. Let the distance stretch wide enough to forget what they were, what they’d almost had. But something pulled him back.

Mafioso opened the door. The room was low-lit and quiet. The light from the lamp cast shadows across the floor, stretching toward Chance—who sat curled at the side of the bed, wrists limp over his knees, head bowed into his arms. 

The chain gave a faint metallic rattle as Chance shifted, barely moving. Mafioso stared at him. Chance had messy hair, and a mark on his cheek.

…I did that.

He shut the door behind him.  “I shouldn’t have hit you. But don’t act like I had no reason to be furious.”

There was no answer from Chance. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Chance looked hollow. Like he’d been emptied from the inside out.

Mafioso took a slow step forward. “Yell. Spit at me. Curse me out. Hate me. But don’t sit there and pretend you didn’t break something in me when you lied.”

Chance lifted his head, slow and heavy. His face was drawn, pale, his eyes rimmed with red. “You think I wanted to lie to you?” His voice cracked as it left his throat. “You think I chose this?”

“You chose not to tell me.” Mafioso growled. “You let me fall. You let me—you let me believe every word and every moment was real.”

“It was real!” Chance yelled, staggering to his feet. The chain behind him clung. “That’s why it fucking hurts! That’s why I’m here, bleeding for it!”

The words echoed in the room.

Chance shook his head, his voice falling to a whisper. “I wanted to tell you. God, I wanted to. But every time I looked at you… I couldn’t. I was scared. Scared that if I did, you’d stop looking at me the way you did.”

“...You ran.” Mafioso said coldly.

“...I know. I know that.” Chance whispered, sitting down, his breath shuddering.

The silence that followed felt alive—shaking, bleeding, holding its breath.

Mafioso stepped closer. Chance’s eyes darted to him, and Mafioso saw a tiny flinch. Like he was ready to be struck again. He stopped moving. 

That hurt more than anything.

The tension didn’t leave. Chance refused to meet his eyes. His jaw was clenched, his body turned away, every inch of him screaming, “don’t touch me”.

“I’m not here to fight you.” Mafioso said. His voice was softer now, almost fragile. “I just didn’t want you to be alone. Even if you hate me.”

Chance didn’t speak, but his body shifted, a shoulder loosened, and a breath slipped past.

Mafioso stared ahead. “I know what I did. I know what this looks like. You were doing your job. And I—” His voice cracked. “I fell in love with someone who was never mine to begin with.”

Chance’s chest rose, trembling.

“And maybe you’ll leave. Maybe after all this, you’ll never want to see me again. But until then…” He looked down at his hands. “I’ll stay. Just in case you need someone to remind you you’re not alone.”

“You shouldn’t love someone like me.” Chance whispered, voice ragged. “You shouldn’t.”

Mafioso closed his eyes. “I know. But I do.”

Mafioso sat on the edge of the bed, still distant. His body ached with the weight of everything—rage, guilt, longing, regret.

“I swore I’d never raise my hand to you. Never control you. Never become the kind of man that made love feel like a prison.” he said, barely audible. “And I still did it. I crossed every line.”

Chance remained motionless, arms still wrapped around himself. The chain rattled faintly with every breath.

Something in the air changed just slightly. 

“I was desperate. I kept telling myself it was love. That I was doing this for us.” His voice cracked, raw now. “But love shouldn’t look like this. It shouldn’t hurt like this… I’m sorry.” Mafioso murmured, eyes tightening. “But I can’t let you leave. Not again.”

That made Chance turn his head, just slightly. 

“I mean it.” Mafioso continued, staring at him now. “You think I’m proud of this? You think I like keeping you chained like some… some prisoner? I don’t.” He clenched his jaw. “But I will do it. Because if I don’t, you’ll vanish again—and this time, I won’t survive it.”

He let the words hang, and let the silence ache.

“I know this isn’t the love you deserve. But it’s the only way I can keep you safe. Even if you hate me for it.”

Chance still didn’t answer. He turned his face away fully this time, eyes burning with anger and exhaustion.

Mafioso stood. “You’re not leaving.” he said, barely above a whisper. “Not until you understand just how much I gave up for you.”

He stepped toward the door. “Rest. I’ll bring food later.”

The door closed with a dull thud, the lock clicked, and the chain stayed fastened.

—

When the night settled over, Mafioso returned to the bedroom.

The soft click of the door opening echoed in the quiet room. He stepped inside carefully with a tray in his hands. On it sat Chance’s favorite food. It was the kind of meal Chance would always hum over when they were still... better. 

Now, Chance didn’t even look at him.

He sat on the bed where he’d been all day, knees tucked close, arms wrapped around himself like armor. He hadn’t spoken a word since earlier. 

Mafioso tried not to let the silence sting, but it clawed at him with every second. He approached slowly, setting the tray on the bedside table. “You haven’t eaten.” 

Chance didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink.

“I made sure it’s how you like it. I remembered.” 

Silence.

Mafioso’s fingers curled at his side. He stared at Chance—at the hurt in his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched even in stillness, the raw wall of fury and betrayal behind all of it.

“I know you hate me right now.” Mafioso sat down on the edge of the bed again. “Maybe you always will. I deserve it. But I still wanted to bring you your favorite.”

Another silence.

Mafioso looked at the tray one more time before rising. “I’ll leave it here. Just in case.”

He walked toward the door, but stopped halfway. “I don’t know what’s going to happen between us anymore. But I still remember who you are.”

Then, without waiting for a reply he knew wouldn’t come, he stepped out.

—

The night deepened.

The silence had been unbearable. Mafioso had tried to distract himself by doing various tasks—sorting documents, making calls, pouring himself half a glass of whiskey he never drank. But his mind never left the quiet behind that door.

Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore and he returned to his bedroom. The door creaked open softly, and he stepped inside with barely a breath. His gaze flicked immediately to the bedside table—and then stopped.

The plate was empty.

Mafioso’s chest tightened. Something like a hand around his heart, easing the grip for the first time in days.

He looked at Chance, still curled up in bed, back facing the door. But there was a subtle shift now. His arms weren’t wrapped around himself so tightly, and his posture wasn’t quite as sharp, quite as cold.

“...You ate.” Mafioso’s voice cracked.

He didn’t wait for permission this time. He stepped forward, slowly and then lowered himself onto the bed beside him, reaching out gently. His arms circled Chance’s waist, and he pulled him close, burying his face into his back with a trembling breath.

“...I knew you liked those.” A soft smile tugged at Mafioso’s lips despite the tears welling up. 

Still no reply, but Chance didn’t pull away.

Mafioso held him tighter. Just long enough to feel the steady beat of the man he still loved more than anything. 

“...Please… let me go.”

Mafioso’s jaw clenched. He swallowed hard, fighting the storm inside him. “I can’t.” He cupped Chance’s face gently, thumb brushing over his cheek.

“I don’t want you. I don’t wanna be with you. Don’t you understand enough? Please… let me go.” Chance said, voice expressing sadness.

Mafioso’s eyes filled with pain at the raw honesty. He swallowed hard, struggling to steady his voice. “I’m just… terrified of losing you again.”

“But I don’t feel the same.”

Mafioso’s chest tightened painfully, but he nodded slowly, swallowing the ache. “I know.”

Chance gritted his teeth. “...I hate you.”

This time, Mafioso’s eyes darkened, his calm cracking at the edges. He was slowly getting pissed. So he leaned in close, voice low and hard. “...Sleep. Before I make you.”

“I’m not scared of you. Do whatever you want. It won’t change how I feel.” Chance quietly replies, still in his embrace.

Chapter Text

The next morning, pale light spilled softly through the penthouse windows.

Chance’s eyes fluttered open, sluggish at first, then sharpening with clarity as they locked onto Mafioso’s gaze. The other man was already awake, lying still, watching him with that unnerving intensity that made it difficult to tell if it was affection, obsession, or simply the hunger of a predator eyeing his prey.

He took that opportunity to mock the other man. “So that quote-unquote ‘passionate night’. That was just you trying to control me, wasn’t it? Another one of your pathetic attempts to prove you own me?”

Mafioso’s eyes narrowed, and though he didn’t immediately respond, the way his jaw tightened betrayed his calm exterior. “Maybe I do.” he shot back, his tone edged with immediate anger. “And maybe you like it more than you admit.”

Chance’s laugh came out sharp, hollow, devoid of any warmth. It was a sound meant to wound. “Don’t flatter yourself, boy.” He spat the last word like poison. “You think possession is love? You think control equals devotion? You’re pathetic. You’re fooling yourself, and worse—you want me to be fooled with you.”

Silence.

“Fucking bitch. I hope you die.”

That broke something in Mafioso. Without a word, his hand darted toward the chain that tethered Chance’s ankle. The sudden, metallic clink of links rattling against the floor echoed through the room. He yanked it sharply, a reminder of power rather than a burst of rage. Chance’s body jerked against the pull, the bite of cold iron digging into his skin.

“Enough.” Mafioso growled, his voice low and dangerous. “I told you to don’t mistake my patience for weakness.”

For a moment, they locked eyes—Chance unflinching, defiant despite the situation; Mafioso a storm barely kept in check. 

Then, just as quickly, Mafioso released the chain and rose to his feet. Without sparing another glance, he turned and strode toward the door, his footsteps echoing until the heavy click of the lock sealed Chance in silence once again.

The room felt colder in his absence, the silence louder than any insult exchanged. Chance’s chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths, his mind racing. 

He waited until he was sure Mafioso was gone. Hidden beneath the folds of his leg pocket, Chance’s fingers moved swiftly, retrieving the small burner phone carefully stashed inside a hidden pocket strapped to his leg. 

His fingers trembled slightly as he powered it on, the glow of the screen illuminating his face. He pressed it close to his ear and whispered, his voice steady despite the chains weighing him down. 

…It’s me. I don’t have much time. Send help.

Hold tight.

Chance’s heart pounded, a mix of relief and tension swirling inside him. He tucked the phone back into his leg pocket, eyes scanning the room warily as Mafioso’s footsteps were heard outside, unaware.

I’m fucking chained to his bed.

He hit send, the message vanishing into the void, and quickly shoved the phone back into its hidden compartment in his leg. 

The chain at Chance’s ankle shifted with the slightest movement, the metallic clink cutting through the silence like a taunt. Every sound reminded him of how close he was to being discovered, how thin the line was between survival and disaster.

But he swallowed the rising panic, his jaw tightening as he steadied himself. Rescue was already in motion. Somewhere out there, Guest and 007n7 had read his words, and help would come.

No matter how strong the chains were, Chance clung to one truth, that he would not be here forever.

—

Outside, a small team moved, their steps silent. 007n7 led the way, Guest close behind, both navigating the blind spots of the building’s state-of-the-art security as though they’d memorized the layout by heart.

They reached the side window of the bedroom, tools already in hand. The latch gave way with barely a whisper, and the night air slipped inside. Chance sat rigid on the edge of the bed, heart hammering in his chest as familiar faces appeared through the crack of moonlight. Relief flooded him, but he forced himself still—every sound, every movement could be the one to draw Mafioso’s attention.

Outside the door, the faint rhythm of pacing had ceased. Mafioso had settled into the living room, slouched in his chair, a glass of whiskey cradled in one hand. His thoughts were consumed with bitter fury, anger replaying in loops, his jaw tight as he stared blankly at the city lights. 

Inside his bedroom, Guest crouched low, fingers working deftly at the lock around Chance’s ankle. Each clink of metal against metal sounded deafening in the silence. Chance’s breath caught, terrified that the noise might carry down the hall. 

Soon, the shackle fell away. The sudden absence of weight felt unreal, like stepping out of a nightmare mid-dream. Guest gave him a sharp nod, and together, they guided him toward the open window, every motion practiced, fluid, and urgent.

The night swallowed them whole as they disappeared into the shadows of the city. The curtains swayed gently in their wake, the only sign that anyone had been there at all.

Minutes later, Mafioso rose from his chair, irritation gnawing at him, and made his way back to the bedroom. He pushed open the door, expecting to see his prisoner bound and waiting.

Instead—an empty bed. Chains lying loose and useless on the floor. The faintest trace of Chance lingered in the air, sharp as betrayal.

Mafioso’s chest tightened as the glass in his hand shattered against the floor.

Chance was gone.

In response, Mafioso slammed his fist against the sleek glass of the penthouse window, the impact rattling through the frame and leaving a crack across its surface. The skyline beyond shimmered in the distance, but his reflection staring back at him was a monster—eyes dark, jaw clenched, fury radiating from every line of his body.

The rage inside him was huge. Yet beneath buried so deep he could hardly bear to name it, lay something raw—pain, sharp and suffocating, a wound no one could see.

He staggered backward, chest heaving, one hand gripping at the front of his shirt as though he could tear out the ache that gnawed at him. His vision swam, the edges of the room blurring as anger gave way to disorientation. His breath came ragged, uneven.

And then the storm broke.

His knees buckled, crashing against the cold marble floor. A strangled grunt escaped him, part fury, part despair, as he squeezed his eyes shut against the burn threatening to escape. For the first time in years, Mafioso—untouchable, ruthless, feared by all—felt the weight of something he could not command, could not cage, could not own.

The boss of an empire, reduced to a man gasping in the silence of his own empty room. 

Mafioso lay motionless on the floor of his penthouse, his chest rising and falling, and the silence pressed down on him from every corner. 

His mind betrayed him with memories.

Chance’s laughter spilling across the kitchen in a moment that felt almost ordinary. Confessions spoken with trembling lips, fragile truths that had once held the weight of forever. The warmth that lingered in his bed, the arms that clung to him like he was something worth holding on to. For some time, it had felt real.

But then—he thought of the chain. The venom in Chance’s voice. The hate in those eyes, sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone.

Mafioso clenched his jaw until it ached. His hands itched to smash the chandelier above him, to tear the paintings from the walls, to rip apart everything in reach. He wanted to scream until his throat bled. But none of it came. Instead, an emptiness crept in, hollow and merciless.

Maybe it wasn’t love.

Because what kind of love forced someone to stay?

What kind of love chained a person to a bed?

What kind of love twisted devotion into ownership?

He stared blankly at the ceiling. It reminded him of Chance, but the warmth of those memories now stung with bitterness.

The realization didn’t hit all at once. It seeped into him slowly, gnawing at him. Whatever existed between them, whatever he thought they had, was decaying under the weight of his cruelty.

The longing was still there, carved deep. The obsession hadn’t loosened its grip. 

But the love was rotting.

Mafioso finally felt it. He wasn’t just losing Chance. 

He was losing the love he thought they shared, the fragile thing he’d sworn to protect.

Maybe he had never deserved it in the first place.

—

Chance was back in one of Forsaken's underground secure facilities, far more reinforced than before. Cameras monitored the halls, and armed agents rotated shifts. Guest had ensured this location was classified, inaccessible even to some of their top operatives.

But none of that helped Chance sleep better.

He sat on the edge of the cot in his room, his hands still faintly trembling. Not from the rescue. Not from exhaustion.

From the lingering ghost of that chain around his ankle, and the sound of his voice whispering threats and apologies like they were two sides of the same coin.

He touched his ankle absently, rubbing the skin as if to erase a memory. But the helplessness wouldn't go away.

Fucking bitch. I hope you die.

A knock broke the silence. It was 007n7 on the other side of the door. "You alright?"

Chance didn’t answer at first. He looked up, eyes hollow. "...I didn’t think I’d make it out."

007n7 stepped in, leaving the door ajar. He handed him a bottle of water and a wrapped protein bar. “You almost didn’t. Guest is already issuing ghost protocols. Mafioso’s men are searching aggressively. But damn Jesus, you look like shit.”

Chance forced a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “He chained me. Foot to the bed. Like I was some pet he could lock up whenever he wanted.”

007n7’s face tensed.

“He slapped me. Threw me around. Told me he loved me and still fucking kept me there like some prisoner. But I begged. I told him I didn’t love him, that I hated him. You know what he said?”

“…What?”

“‘Sleep before I make you.’”

There was a pause. A long, silent pause. Chance didn’t cry this time—he had no tears left. But his hands were trembling slightly. He stared down at them like they didn’t belong to him anymore.

“He’s not in love with me. He’s obsessed. And I let it go too far.”

007n7’s expression had hardened. “We should’ve burned that penthouse down with him inside.”

Chance didn’t argue.

Instead, he looked up with tired, dead eyes. “Ah, fuck... if he catches me, I’m fucking sure I’ll get something from him.” He rubbed his face with both hands, jaw tightening. “…Maybe another fucking chain. Or worse.”

To calm the other man down, 007n7 decided to switch the television on, the glow of it cast flickering shadows across his face. But the television decided to deliver breaking news, unbeknownst to both of them. 

The news anchor’s voice was steady but urgent. “...A major leak from Forsaken has revealed damning evidence against Sonno Corporation. Documents show years of illicit activities, money laundering, and ties to organized crime.”

Chance’s fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white. The images on screen were undeniable—contracts, internal memos, covert surveillance photos. Sonno’s empire was unraveling before the eyes of the city.

“...Holy shit.”

Chapter Text

The lights were blinding. The flashes from cameras came one after the other.

Mafioso stepped up to the podium in a crisp charcoal suit, flanked by high-ranking Sonno officials. The Sonno logo shined above him, now smeared by scandal in every headline across the city.

He adjusted the mic.

The murmurs in the crowd silenced.

He cleared his throat, calm and cold, eyes scanning the sea of raised phones and flashing lenses. “Good evening. The recent data leaks regarding Sonno Corporation have caused a wave of concern, outrage, and confusion. We understand. And we are here to address it.”

Behind him, the screen displayed words. “Let me be clear: the files released to the public contain confidential documents, many of which have been taken out of context, distorted, or falsified.”

A stir in the crowd.

“However, Sonno will be conducting a full internal investigation into any valid claims of corruption or misconduct. We will cooperate with all authorities and take necessary steps to ensure transparency.”

Mafioso gripped the podium subtly tighter. He had to act like this wasn’t personal, like Chance hadn’t done this to him. “Effective immediately, a third-party ethics committee will be established. All involved departments will be audited.”

Gasps. A few reporters murmured to each other.

But Mafioso kept going. “This company has stood for strength, for innovation. We will not be defined by shadows, but we will rise above them.”

He raised his gaze, expression unreadable. Somewhere inside, it still hurt. “Thank you. We will now take a limited number of questions.”

The room burst into noise, but Mafioso barely heard them.

“Mr. Mafioso, the leaks mention your name explicitly in several documents. Funds wired to shell corporations, personal orders signed by you. What do you have to say about your alleged role in Sonno’s black-ops network?”

Mafioso’s expression didn’t flinch. He leaned slightly toward the microphone. “I am not, and have never been, involved in any illegal operations.”

Camera shutters exploded.

“The documents are riddled with doctored signatures and fragmented trails — clever enough to plant doubt, but not enough to prove anything concrete.”

He paused, scanning the crowd. “If I had orchestrated anything illegal, you’d think the person who stole the data would have leaked everything — not just breadcrumbs.”

That got them murmuring. He stayed composed.

Another reporter stood. “Then how do you explain the correlation between Sonno’s security force movement?”

A muscle in Mafioso’s jaw twitched. But again, his voice remained level. “I understand how that looks. But correlation is not causation. We are a global security firm. Our presence in high-risk zones is protocol — not proof of guilt.”

A few gasps followed the comment. But Mafioso didn’t reel back. He stood firmer.

He continued. “Sonno’s actions have always aligned with protecting this city. Everything else is a smear campaign launched by a rogue agent with an agenda. I will not engage in a media war. I trust the investigation to reveal the truth. And until then... I have nothing to hide.”

Another wave of flashing lights.

A third reporter jumped in quickly. “Is it true Sonno is dispatching private operatives to hunt down the whistleblower?”

“No comment.”

The murmurs hadn’t died down when Mafioso shifted at the podium, resting both hands on either side of the mic. The crowd sensed a change in tone.

“And to the organization known as Forsaken...”

The entire press room quieted.

“I’m aware of your involvement in the data breach. I’m aware of the agent responsible.”

He didn’t name Chance. But his voice dropped an octave, and every syllable cut clean. “Your little crusade for justice comes at the cost of thousands of jobs, international security contracts, and decades of advancement.”

A long pause.

“You call yourselves righteous, but what you’ve done is destabilize more than just Sonno. You’ve lit a match in a room full of gasoline, and for what? A few headlines?”

He didn’t look angry. No, Mafioso looked calm. “We will cooperate with the city’s investigation. We will comply with all legal demands. But make no mistake...”

His gaze sharpened. “Sonno is not a name you erase with a file leak. And I am not a man you threaten with shadows.”

Silence. Every reporter stiffened.

Mafioso gave the faintest smile. “To Forsaken, I hope you enjoy your moment in the sun. I hope it keeps you warm when the storm comes.”

He stepped back from the mic. “That will be all.”

And with that, he turned and left the stage.

—

The blinds were half-drawn, casting narrow stripes of daylight across the office’s cold marble floor. Mafioso leaned over his desk, hands braced on the smooth glass surface. His suit jacket hung on the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled up, veins showing in his forearms.

The door opened without a knock.

Azure entered first, his expression unreadable, with Noli following. They shut the door behind them.

“You called?” Azure asked, folding his arms.

Mafioso straightened his posture. His eyes, red at the rims, though not a single tear had fallen in front of them, met theirs directly. “I want a full investigation on Forsaken.”

Noli’s brows lifted slightly. “On what grounds?”

Mafioso glared at him. “On every fucking ground I can make legal. Leaked classified data. Infiltration. Espionage. And emotional manipulation, if I could charge that.”

Azure’s jaw twitched. “Chance.”

Mafioso didn’t answer at first. “I’m not asking you to bomb them. Not yet. I want facts. Documents. Weak points. How they operate, who funds them, where they sleep.”

Noli sighed. “Mafioso. That’s a lot of ground to cover, even for us.”

“Then start digging.”

A moment of silence passed. Azure took a slow breath, stepping forward. “Look... are you sure you want to go this far?”

Mafioso turned his gaze toward the cityscape through the window. “I know what I want. And I’m done losing to people who play dirty with clean hands.”

He looked back at them, voice quiet but solid. “They exposed everything we built. Now we take it back.”

Azure and Noli exchanged a brief glance. Then Noli nodded. “We’ll begin immediately.”

Azure cracked his neck and shrugged. “Fine. Let’s see how deep this Forsaken goes.”

As they turned to leave, Mafioso spoke again. “One more thing.”

They paused at the door. “If you find him…” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “...Don’t hurt him.”

Neither responded aloud. But the nod they gave was enough.

The door clicked shut behind them.

And Mafioso sat down alone, the chair groaning beneath him. He stared at the phone on his desk.

It wasn’t even his primary line — just a private, unregistered burner he hadn’t touched since him.

After a beat of hesitation, he picked it up. His thumb hovered over the last number dialed, one that should’ve been deactivated. 

But he pressed it anyway. The line connected after it rung three times.

There was silence.

Mafioso’s heart lurched in a way he hadn’t felt since that night. 

“…Hello?” Chance spoke from the other line.

Mafioso swallowed. His voice came out lower than intended. “You answered.”

“Yeah.” Chance muttered. “Was a mistake.”

“Is it?”

“Every second of this fucking thing is.”

Silence again. 

“I needed to hear your voice. I thought I’d forgotten the sound.”

Chance didn’t respond. The hum of a distant vent filtered in through the phone speaker.

“Where are you?” Mafioso asked.

“You know I won’t answer that.”

Another pause. A tired exhale on Chance’s end. “You shouldn’t have called me.”

“But you still answered.”

“...I don’t know why.”

“I do.” Mafioso whispered. “Because we never really stopped—”

“Stop.” Chance’s tone cut like a blade. “Don’t twist this. You loved your idea of me. I was your pawn, your pretty little project. But you don’t love me. You love control.”

“Then why are you still on the line?”

“…Because part of me still hoped you’d say goodbye.” Chance’s voice shook slightly. “So… goodbye, Mafioso.”

The line went dead.

Mafioso didn’t think. His fingers moved on instinct.

Redialing.

Chance answered again. “Bruh. What do you want from me now?”

Mafioso clenched his jaw. “Why did you answer?”

“Because I knew it was you.” Chance snapped. “And maybe I wanted to make sure I really hate you.”

“Hate me all you want.” Mafioso said, tone colder now. “But I know damn well you could’ve blocked this number.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I enjoy watching you squirm. A bitter scoff followed. “You’re pathetic, y’know that?”

Mafioso’s lips curled, barely. “And yet, you picked up again.”

“Okay, fine! You know what!? It’s because part of me still remembers… you holding me like you meant it…and I hate that part of me. I’ve hardly forgotten everything we shared…” Chance’s voice cracked.

Mafioso didn’t say anything for a moment. “I meant everything we shared.”

“That’s the problem.”

Chance hung up again.

Mafioso stared at the phone. His thumb hovered over the redial button and pressed it.

“You don’t fucking quit, do you?” Chance’s voice sounded tired. “What now?”

“I want to see you.” Mafioso’s voice cracked. “Please.”

“You’ve seen enough of me, haven’t you?”

“Not like this.” Mafioso said quietly. “Not when I know it’s over. Just one last time. I swear on everything, sweetheart. Just… let me look at you. That’s all I’m asking.”

Chance stayed silent.

Mafioso continued. “I need to see you and remember what it was like before it all turned to hell. Before I made it hell. I need to—”

“Why?” Chance’s voice was smaller now. “So you can cling to something that was never geniune? So you can stare and pretend we could’ve worked out?”

Mafioso whispered in reply. “Because I don’t know how to let go.”

“…Where?”

Mafioso closed his eyes, relief crashing through him like a wave. “Anywhere. You choose.”

Chance paused. “One time. And you don’t follow me after.”

“One time.” Mafioso agreed, his voice barely a breath.

“...How the hell did you find this number? I’m using a burner. You’re not supposed to have it.”

Mafioso’s breath hit the line, low and steady. “I have my ways.”

—

The city murmured faintly outside, but inside the quiet café, time felt suspended. Chance’s footsteps echoed softly against the tiled floor as he entered, his chest tight with unease. It had been a few since he’d last seen Mafioso.

And then, he saw him.

Mafioso sat in the far corner, his presence impossible to ignore. But there was a heaviness in his eyes that Chance had never seen before. When their gazes met, the room seemed to empty of sound.

Mafioso rose without hesitation, crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat. His arms closed around Chance, pulling him into an embrace that was both desperate and tender, as though he feared Chance would vanish if he let go.

Chance stiffened. The scent of leather and faint cologne was familiar, achingly so, but instead of comfort, it made his chest ache. He didn’t return the hug.

“Don’t.” Chance said quietly, his voice rough.

Mafioso froze but didn’t let go, his head lowering until his lips brushed against Chance’s ear. “Please...”

Chance pushed him back, eyes hard though his throat tightened. “You’ve had enough of me, haven’t you?”

“Not like this.” Mafioso murmured, his voice frayed. 

Chance’s silence stretched between them, sharp as broken glass. Mafioso’s gaze wavered, pained, his voice lowering to almost nothing.

Mafioso looked at Chance as if memorizing every line of his face, as if trying to burn the image into his memory.

But Chance didn’t soften. His voice carried finality. “This ends here. After tonight, you don’t follow me. You don’t call. You don’t look for me.”

“Chance—” Mafioso began, but the sharpness in Chance’s gaze cut him down.

“One time.” Chance said, almost spitting the words. “That’s all you get. Then nothing. You chase me again, and you’ll regret it.”

Mafioso’s throat bobbed as he nodded faintly.

The silence that followed was jagged, heavy with loss. Mafioso’s hands twitched as though he longed to reach for him again, but Chance had already stepped back, the distance between them growing wider than the café itself.

When Chance finally turned to leave, his parting words were cold, stripped of anything tender. “Don’t look for me again. This is the last time.”

And though Mafioso’s lips parted as if to plead, no sound came out. He only watched as Chance walked away, the bell over the café door chiming softly, sealing the end between them.

Chapter Text

Chance walked back into the Forsaken headquarters. The familiar sight and low murmur of agents at work felt oddly distant.

He made his way to the briefing room, where Guest and Shedletsky awaited him. Their faces showed no surprise at his return. 

Guest glanced up from a stack of documents. “Back so soon. Ready for your next assignment?”

Chance nodded. “I’m ready, Guest.”

Shedletsky’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer, sensing something, but ultimately said nothing.

Chance sat quietly as Guest laid out the details of the new mission. The room felt colder somehow.

“Spectre is one of the most dangerous underground organizations operating right now. Their influence is growing fast. They do arms trafficking, black market dealings, data espionage, and such. We’ve intercepted chatter linking them to several high-profile assassinations.”

Shedletsky leaned forward, tapping a file on the table. “Their leader, Jane Doe, is elusive. No one knows her true identity or origins. What we do know is that she’s ruthless, highly intelligent, and keeps her hands clean by operating through layers of proxies.”

Guest nodded. “Your objective is to infiltrate Spectre, gather intel, and kill Jane Doe.”

Chance nodded, steeling himself as Guest slid over a dossier thick with information. “Jane Doe will be attending a high-profile ballroom banquet next week.” Guest said quietly. “It’s one of her rare public appearances… an opportunity to get close.”

He flipped open the folder, revealing photos of the opulent venue, guest lists, and security layouts. “Your cover will be as a wealthy, charming attendee. Someone who’s looking for a woman to take home. Blend in, gain trust, and identify Jane Doe. The intel suggests she’s cautious but can’t resist an intriguing stranger.”

Chance absorbed the details with a sharp focus. Disguises, smooth talk, and subtle surveillance—all skills he had honed long ago.

“Dress to impress. Anyhow, you’re charming and wealthy too.” Guest added, a faint smirk crossing his face. “This isn’t just a mission, it’s a game, Chance. And you need to play it well.”

Chance exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “I’ll get it done.”

—

The night of the ballroom banquet arrived with a crisp elegance that suited the city's elite. Chance stepped out of the sleek black car, adjusting his tailored tuxedo and sliding on a pair of polished leather gloves. Under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, the grand hall buzzed with whispered conversations and clinking glasses.

He weaved through the crowd. His eyes scanned faces, noting names and alliances, overhearing fragments of conversations, all while wearing the mask of a carefree guest.

Approaching a cluster of well-dressed patrons, he exchanged pleasantries, laughter flowing effortlessly as he asked about the evening’s entertainment and subtly probed about notable attendees. His smile was disarming; his presence natural.

But beneath the facade, every move was calculated. Each handshake, each glance, each light touch on an arm was a thread in the web he was weaving to reach Jane Doe.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, something pulled his attention. A familiar figure stepping through the crowd with authority. 

Mafioso. 

Dressed impeccably in a midnight-blue suit, flanked closely by Azure and Noli, both and alert.

A cold pang shot through Chance’s chest. Mafioso’s eyes locked onto his for a split second.

Chance’s mind raced. 

What was Mafioso doing here?

He shifted slightly, blending into a nearby group, heart pounding. The mission had just become infinitely more complicated.

Chance’s gaze snapped back to the glittering center of the ballroom, where Jane Doe stood. Draped in an elegant black gown that shimmered under the chandeliers, she exuded lethality.

Taking a steadying breath, Chance crossed the polished marble floor, approaching Jane with effortless confidence, he dipped into a polite bow.

“May I have this dance?” 

Jane turned, her eyes locking with his. “And who might you be, stranger?”

“A man looking for something… or someone worth the risk.” Chance replied smoothly, offering his hand.

She accepted, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor as the orchestra swelled around them. Their bodies moved in time, the crowd blurring into insignificance.

But across the room, Mafioso’s sharp eyes never left them.

Chance noticed it. Out of the corner of his eye, Mafioso turned away, his expression stony but his posture tense. Shoulders squared too sharply, jaw locked, and hands curled into fists at his sides.

He saw it all.

He kept one hand on Jane Doe’s waist, the other clasped in hers as they glided across the ballroom floor with grace. The tempo was elegant, but his mind stayed sharp, calculating everything.

Jane’s gaze lingered on his, amused. “You’re surprisingly smooth on your feet.”

Chance offered a faint smile, eyes locked on hers. “You’d be surprised what I can do when motivated.”

Her smirk grew. “And what motivates you, mystery man?”

He leaned in slightly, letting the silk of his voice curl between them. “Power. Thrill. And, maybe… someone worth chasing.”

That earned him a chuckle. “Dangerous words. You must be new to this circle.”

Chance’s expression remained charming, easy. “Not new. Just passing through.”

As they continued their dance, he kept the rhythm flawless. The music swelled, violins gliding like silk through the ballroom.

Jane spun under his arm effortlessly, her gown sweeping out. When she returned to his hold, her voice lowered, teasing but sharp. “You're not just here to find a woman to go home with, are you?”

Chance smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just looking for the right one.”

“Mm.” She studied him with interest now.

There was something predatory about her too, like she was trying to pick apart the mystery before it could strike.

His fingers tightened slightly at her waist. “I heard you’re the kind of woman men don’t leave.”

“And you’re the kind of man who makes women regret staying.” She leaned in, her breath ghosting his ear. “Tell me your name.”

Chance’s eyes scanned the room behind her, noting guards, security cameras—everything. “It’s better you don’t know.”

Jane laughed. “Trouble . I like that.”

But Chance wasn’t listening anymore. Because he saw it again—Mafioso. Now at the far end of the ballroom, standing near a marble pillar, flanked by Azure and Noli. The two were watching the crowd carefully, but Mafioso was watching Chance.

Their eyes met for half a second.

Mafioso didn’t blink. His face betrayed nothing—no fury, no heartbreak—but the cold in his eyes cut clean through Chance’s act. Through the tux, the smile, the lie wrapped in elegance.

It was pain.

Chance’s throat tightened, but he didn’t stop dancing.

Because Jane’s hand was still in his. And the mission was still on. His objective stood right in front of him, and there was no room for weakness.

“Care for a drink?” Chance asked, smoothly guiding her toward the bar.

Jane raised a brow. “Thought you’d never ask.”

As they walked, Chance let go of her hand just for a second, and clenched his fist by his side.

The corridor was silent, bathed in golden light from chandeliers above, muffled music trailing behind them from the ballroom. Jane Doe walked ahead of Chance. 

She glanced over her shoulder, smirking. “Private enough for you?”

Chance gave a small, breathy chuckle, playing along. “You could say that.”

The room Jane opened was lavish. And there were no cameras and guards.

She stepped inside first, letting the door close behind them with a soft click.

Jane turned, voice teasing, “I thought you’d be more forward, mysterious stranger. You've had your hands all over me on that dancefloor. Now you’re shy?”

Chance stared at her, silently.

She moved closer, fingertips grazing the lapels of his suit. “Or maybe… you’re savoring it.”

Her hand slipped behind his neck to pull him in.

He didn’t move. Instead, his hand wrapped around her wrist. 

Jane blinked, sensing the shift in the air. “…What’s this?”

“Nothing personal.” Chance said softly.

Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

He let go of her wrist. She didn’t expect what came next.

In one swift motion, his hand went for her throat, and the other pinned her arm to the wall. She gasped, nails scratching against his suit in shock.

“What the fuck—!” she hissed.

But he didn’t stop. He forced her backward, slamming her against the wall, one hand still gripping her wrist. The other reached into his coat, pulling a thin, needle-like dagger from its hidden sheath.

“No…” Jane’s breath hitched. “You’re not—”

He silenced her with a single, clean move—plunging the blade under her ribcage and twisting. A breath escaped her lips, choked and gurgling. Eyes wide with betrayal and realization.

Her knees buckled, but he held her up, his face inches from hers.

“You’re smarter than most.” Chance said quietly. “You should’ve seen this coming.”

Blood began to spread, staining her gown darker.

Jane’s lips parted, trembling. “Who… who sent you…?”

“Does it matter?” he murmured. “It ends here.”

She gritted her teeth, but the strength in her legs was fading. Her body slumped in his arms, red staining his cuffs. Her eyes fluttered once more, as if searching for something—answers, maybe. Then she went still.

Chance eased her body gently to the floor, his expression unreadable. 

He stood, removed the stained gloves from his hands, and slipped them into his coat pocket. Then he straightened his collar, walked to the mirror, and fixed his tie.

He didn’t look back.

As the door opened and the distant sound of music drifted in again, Chance slipped out into the hall, his expression calm.

Jane Doe was no more.

His footsteps guided him toward the open bar section nestled near the garden doors. He eased onto the tall bar stool like any other tired guest seeking a drink.

The bartender looked up. “What can I get you, sir?”

Chance glanced at the array of bottles, eyes momentarily trailing over the champagne and rich reds. “Something strong.”

The man nodded and poured a generous glass of whiskey without a word.

Chance took it, swirling the liquid briefly before sipping. It burned down his throat.

—

Chance didn’t turn his head.

He felt the presence beside him. That quiet, sharp stillness that always came with Mafioso, like the calm just before a gun goes off.

A chair pulled out. Then, without a word, Mafioso sat beside him.

The silence between them was thick. Too heavy for a reunion.

Chance took another sip of his whiskey. The glass was already half-empty. “…You followed me.”

“I didn’t have to.” Mafioso replied, low and calm, like the bitterness hidden beneath aged wine. “You walked right into the fire, sweetheart.”

Chance gave a humorless scoff. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

Mafioso didn’t answer right away. He rested his elbows on the counter, folding his hands. “I could say the same about you. But then again, it’s always a masquerade, isn’t it?”

Chance stared forward, his eyes glassy under the ballroom lights. “I was working.”

“I know.” Mafioso’s voice hardened, just slightly. “I saw you dancing with her. Flirting. Thought maybe you’d forgotten what we had.”

Chance didn’t flinch. “I didn’t forget. I just know how to play a part.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Chance set the glass down. “That’s classified.”

Mafioso chuckled once. “I’m not stupid, Chance.”

“I know you’re not.” Chance muttered, rubbing the rim of his glass.

A beat passed.

“I didn’t want you to see that.” Chance said, softer now. “It wasn’t personal.”

Mafioso turned his head, studying him. “Was anything ever personal, Chance?”

The assassin looked at him now, and for a second, his mask cracked. “…Only you.”

Mafioso’s breath caught, subtly. He didn’t smile and speak.

But the way his fingers curled into fists on the bar said everything.

Chance didn’t look at him again. He simply exhaled slowly, his eyes fixed on the dark amber liquid at the bottom of his glass.

Mafioso leaned back slightly, still watching him. “You know. I thought I was ready. I told myself I could let you go.”

Chance said nothing.

“I even believed it for a while.” Mafioso let out a hollow laugh. “But then I saw you tonight—dancing like none of it ever happened. Smiling like that night meant nothing to you.”

Chance’s fingers tightened around the glass. “That night meant everything to me.”

“Then why did you run?” Mafioso snapped before he could stop himself.

Chance didn’t flinch. “I ran because it hurt too much to stay.”

Mafioso stared at him. “You think it didn’t hurt me?”

“I know it did.” Chance murmured. “That’s why I begged you to let me go.”

Mafioso leaned in then, voice barely above a whisper. “And yet you still haunt me.”

Chance closed his eyes. “That’s not what I want.”

“But it’s what you are.” Mafioso said. “I can’t forget you. No matter how many times I try.”

Silence again.

The music from the ballroom played faintly behind them—an elegant waltz, far too pretty for the mess between them.

“Why are you really here tonight, Chance? Was it just the job?”

“I didn’t know you were gonna be here.” Chance said immediately, his voice quieter than he intended.

He hated how caught off guard he sounded. Like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

Mafioso didn’t answer right away. He simply studied Chance in silence, like he was trying to read through layers that Chance didn’t even realize he was wearing. His jaw was tight. His hands were clasped in front of him on the bar, tense.

“I figured.” Mafioso finally said. “You wouldn’t have flirted with her like that if you knew I was watching.”

Chance looked away. He couldn’t deny it. He had played the part well, well enough to lower Jane Doe’s guard. It wasn’t real, just a tactic. But he knew how it must have looked.

“…It was for the mission.”

Mafioso exhaled a slow breath, but there was a bitterness laced in it. “Always is, isn’t it?” he muttered. “Everything with you. Always just for the mission.”

Chance tensed. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Mafioso turned to him more fully now. His voice wasn’t angry. “You came here to take someone out, and I get it. It’s your job. But you didn’t think—just for a second—that maybe I’d be here too?”

“I didn’t.” Chance said, a little firmer now. “I didn’t think you’d be anywhere near something like this. Hell, I didn’t even want to come. I just did what I was told.”

Mafioso’s expression faltered for just a breath. The vulnerability barely showed through. “Yeah. You always do.”

Chance sighed and glanced away, the ballroom blurring in his peripheral vision. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t wanted to see Mafioso again like this. “I didn’t know.” Chance repeated, softer this time. “If I did, I wouldn't have—”

“You would’ve still come.” Mafioso interrupted. “Because that’s who you are now.”

Chance looked down into his drink.

—

The atmosphere in the grand ballroom had shifted palpably. Polite conversation and clinking glasses was now punctuated by hushed whispers and the occasional sharp glance toward the heavy oak doors leading to the private corridors. Somewhere just beyond, the body of Jane Doe had been discovered in a secluded room, her reign ended with finality.

The distant footsteps grew louder as security personnel moved quickly through the hallways, their faces grim. The reality of what had happened was settling over the guests like a cold shadow.

Chance’s fingers tightened around his glass. “I have to leave before they start asking questions.”

Mafioso rose with effortless grace, closing the space between them until their shoulders nearly touched. His gaze softened momentarily, flickering with a pain that belied his usual composed exterior.

“You did what you had to do. But I don’t want you to vanish like this again.”

Chance turned to look at him fully, the briefest flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. “It’s never that simple.”

Mafioso’s voice dropped even lower. “...Everything’s been harder without you by my side.”

Chance hesitated, the weight of those words sinking deep, before nodding slowly. The moment stretched between them. “I’m sorry, Mafioso. Things have changed. What we had before… is not possible anymore.”

Then Chance slipped away toward the exit, leaving Mafioso behind.