The sound of motorcycle engines echoed through the misty dockyard, growling like wolves in the dark. A black SUV rolled to a slow, deliberate stop under the dull glow of a flickering streetlamp. The door creaked open, and Milan stepped out, his coat sweeping the concrete like a cape.

He stood still for a moment, scanning the figures emerging from the fog. The overseas MC gang was here—tall, stone-faced, and armed. Milan’s own crew flanked him, silent and alert, fingers twitching near their weapons. Every breath between them felt heavy with history and threat.

Milan took a single step forward—

And tripped.

His polished shoe caught a rusted pipe, and he stumbled awkwardly toward the rival mafia boss. Guns were drawn in a heartbeat, the tension slicing through the air like a blade.

He froze mid-stumble, caught his balance, and cleared his throat.

“I meant to do that,” he muttered, brushing off his coat with a flick far too dramatic for the moment.

The rival boss didn’t blink. “Real smooth, boss man.”

Without missing a beat, Milan extended his hand, the cocky smirk slipping back onto his face. “Like I said... trust.”

After a pause, the rival accepted the handshake. The moment lingered—tense, dangerous—but unspoken agreements passed through locked eyes.

Two kings. One empire. Blood would decide everything.

Later That Night – Mafia Headquarters

The trailer played on a wide screen inside the private lounge of Milan’s underground club. The room was dim, the air thick with smoke and the scent of whiskey. His crew sat on velvet couches, murmuring as they watched the dramatic footage roll.

“Boss looks badass,” someone commented.

Milan sat front and center, legs crossed, nursing a glass of scotch. He looked every bit the part—until he leaned sideways to steal a cookie from a pink plate sitting on the armrest... and spilled the entire drink onto his shirt.

“Sh*t,” he muttered.

“Boss, you good?” one of his men asked, biting back a laugh.

“I’m fine. It’s part of the look.”

Before anyone else could react, a small figure padded into the room. Trixie, Milan’s five-year-old daughter, held a crumpled napkin in her tiny hand and looked up at him with amused eyes.

“Daddy,” she giggled, dabbing his shirt, “you’re like a puppy when you fall.”

Milan exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You’re the only one allowed to say that.”

The gang chuckled quietly. The room, usually so cold and controlled, softened just a little in her presence.

As the trailer ended, silence returned. The screen now showed a still image of the rival boss—broad-shouldered, smug, unreadable.

“What do we really think about this alliance?” one of his men asked.

Milan stared at the screen, his expression unreadable.

I don’t trust him, he thought. But I can’t stop thinking about him, either.

The room quieted after Milan's long stare at the screen. His crew shifted in their seats, sensing the change in energy. Trixie had wandered off to sit in the corner with her crayons, humming to herself and completely unaware of the weight hanging in the air.

Milan finally stood, wiping his damp shirt with the napkin Trixie had handed him.

“Keep your eyes open,” he said quietly. “That handshake didn’t mean peace. It meant war with manners.”

A few of his men nodded. One of them, Gray, leaned forward. “You think the overseas gang is planning something?”

“I know they are,” Milan said, walking toward the window that overlooked the city’s glowing skyline. “You don’t send your top dog just to say hi. He’s here for more.”

Gray frowned. “You mean Luka?”

Milan’s jaw tightened at the name. Luka—the rival mafia boss. The man who smiled with his eyes but carried death in his hands. He was the kind of man who made enemies fall for him... before he pulled the trigger.

Milan hated how well he remembered Luka’s voice.

Milan let out a dry chuckle, his voice low. “Luka, huh? Pretty boy’s back in town.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowed like he was picturing the man. “Still using that silky voice and sharp suits to make people forget he’s a snake underneath?”

The men exchanged glances. They’d seen Milan angry before—but this was something else. This was personal.

“He always did love making an entrance,” Milan muttered. “Guess I’ll have to remind Lulu who owns this city.”

Gray raised a brow. “Lulu?”

Milan smirked. “What? It fits. He acts like he’s sweet… until he bites.”

To be continued

Milan exhaled slowly, eyes still on the glowing skyline. “That’s enough for tonight,” he said, turning back to his crew. “Everyone go home, rest up. I want fresh minds tomorrow.”

One by one, his men stood and nodded, grabbing their coats and weapons as they filed out the door. Gray was the last to leave, casting Milan a knowing look before disappearing into the hall.

Now the lounge was quiet. Just the hum of city life outside and the soft sound of crayons scratching paper as Trixie finished her drawing.

Milan glanced at her, then at the clock.

“Dinner time, little star,” he said, walking over and scooping her up in one arm.

Trixie giggled and clung to his neck. “Can I have noodles with smiley sauce?”

He blinked. “Smiley sauce?”

“Ketchup,” she whispered, as if it were a secret.

Milan groaned. “Alright, chef Daddy is on it. But I can’t promise it’ll look good.”

“You always burn the bottom,” she reminded him sweetly.

“That was one time.”

“Four times,” she corrected.

Milan laughed under his breath as he carried her into the kitchen. It wasn’t the grandest part of the mansion, but it had all the essentials—and a few cartoon magnets Trixie had insisted on sticking to the fridge.

He set her down on a stool and got to work, sleeves rolled up, trying to follow a recipe he’d scribbled down from a cooking video last week.

Within ten minutes, the noodles were slightly overcooked, and the “smiley sauce” was splattered messily across the plate like abstract art.

Milan placed it in front of Trixie with a dramatic bow. “Your highness, your royal dinner.”

She clapped like he was a five-star chef. “Yay!”

He sat beside her, watching her eat with the kind of calm that only came in rare moments like this. Her joy, her innocence—it reminded him of everything he was fighting to protect.

Even if tomorrow brought bullets and betrayals…

Tonight, he had smiley sauce and a giggling daughter.

And for now, that was enough.

After dinner, Milan helped Trixie brush her teeth—though most of the toothpaste ended up on the mirror somehow—and tucked her into bed with her favorite stuffed elephant.

“Daddy?” she mumbled, already half-asleep.

“Yeah, little star?”

“Are bad guys scared of you?”

Milan paused, brushing a hand through her soft hair. “Some are,” he said softly. “But not all.”

She blinked sleepily. “If they’re not scared… you make them spaghetti?”

He chuckled. “Something like that.”

She nodded, satisfied, and within minutes her breathing evened out. Milan stood by her bedside for a moment, watching her peaceful face. The world outside was chaos—but in this room, it was still.

He turned off the light and stepped out quietly, closing the door behind him.

On his way to his own room, he kicked the edge of the hallway cabinet.

“Dammit—again?” he muttered, hopping on one foot before catching himself on the wall. “Who keeps moving that thing? Oh right, me.”

Rubbing his ankle, he dragged himself down the hall, but his mind wasn’t quiet.

It kept circling back to Luka.

The way he smiled like he owned every room. The way his voice could drop low enough to make a threat sound like a lullaby. The way Milan still remembered the scent of his cologne even though they hadn’t been in the same room for nearly two years.

“Lulu,” he whispered, smirking to himself.

But the smirk faded quickly. Luka wasn’t just charming. He was dangerous. Clever. Unpredictable.

And now he was here.

Back in Milan’s city. In his territory.

As Milan finally flopped into bed and stared up at the ceiling, he muttered, “Why now?”

But the ceiling had no answers. Only silence.

And somewhere in that silence, Luka’s smile haunted him again.

To be continued

Milan woke up with his hair sticking out in ten different directions, his cheek pressed against a slightly drool-stained pillow. The sunlight peeked through the blackout curtains he swore he closed tighter the night before.

He groaned and sat up, running a hand through the tangled mess on his head. "Great. Mafia boss or fried chicken?"

Still half-asleep, he dragged himself into the bathroom and slapped on a face mask with zero hesitation—his favorite charcoal one that made him look like a haunted marshmallow.

After rinsing off and yawning dramatically, he shuffled out into the hallway, bare feet cold against the marble floor.

"Water," he mumbled like a zombie, making his way toward the kitchen. "Need. Water."

But as he stepped into the living room, glass in hand, he froze.

There, tied to one of his chairs, looking completely unbothered despite the ropes, was Luka.

His gang stood around him, tense, watching Milan’s reaction.

Milan blinked. Then blinked again. “What the hell—?”

“We caught him sneaking around the east side,” Gray said. “He gave up real easy. Didn’t even pull a weapon.”

Luka tilted his head and smiled, eyes locked on Milan.

“Hola, guapo,” Luka purred, as if he weren’t tied up in enemy territory. “Te ves adorable con esa mascarilla.”

Milan stood there, water halfway to his mouth, mask still on his face, and no comeback loading in his brain.

"...I need coffee," he muttered.

Luka laughed, even with a bruise forming on his jaw. “¿No vas a saludarme, mi amor?”

The gang looked confused.

Milan slowly turned to them. “...Nobody touches him. Nobody talks to him. Just—leave him.”

“But boss—”

“I said leave him.”

He finally drank the water, sighed, and glared at Luka.

“Take that stupid smile off your face, Lulu.”

Luka grinned wider.

Milan muttered under his breath, “This day is gonna be hell.”

Luka sat quietly for a while, humming some old Spanish love song under his breath. Milan tried to ignore it, sipping his coffee with his mask still half on.

Then the humming stopped.

Milan glanced up—

And froze.

The chair was empty.

“What the—”

Before he could turn fully, he felt it—arms sliding smoothly around his waist from behind, and a warm breath by his ear.

“Te ves más delicioso de lo que recordaba,” Luka whispered, voice low and teasing.

Milan stiffened, heat crawling up his neck. “You—how the hell—”

His gang scrambled to react, some already pulling out their weapons.

“No se asusten, chicos,” Luka said with a playful tone, his chin resting on Milan’s shoulder. “Solo vine a abrazar a mi ex favorito.”

Milan growled. “Take him away. Now.”

The gang lunged forward, but Luka smirked, gave Milan’s waist one last cheeky squeeze, and in a blur of movement, slipped away like smoke.

He flipped over the balcony railing with gymnastic ease, landed on a lower ledge, and vanished before anyone could fire a shot.

“Hasta luego, corazón!” Luka called out from somewhere in the shadows.

Milan stood there, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, trying to breathe through the storm of emotions.

Gray cautiously stepped closer. “Boss… are you okay?”

Milan downed the rest of his coffee in one go.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he muttered.

Then, quieter, like a confession:

“...After I punch that stupid smile off his face.”

The room was dead silent after Luka’s dramatic escape, the sound of distant city traffic filtering in through the open balcony door. Milan still stood in place, arms crossed tightly over his chest, as if trying to physically hold in his embarrassment.

“Alright…” he growled. “Which one of you knows Spanish?”

The group shifted awkwardly. Then a hand hesitantly went up.

“Uh… I do, boss,” said Jayden, the youngest of the crew. He pushed up his glasses nervously.

Milan pointed at him. “Good. What the hell did that lunatic just say to me?”

Jayden cleared his throat. “Um… first, he said you looked more delicious than he remembered.”

The crew collectively made that “ooh” sound you hear in high school fights.

Milan’s eyebrow twitched.

Jayden continued, trying not to grin, “Then he told us not to panic, that he just wanted to hug his favorite ex…”

Milan’s face turned red instantly.

“Favorite what?”

“Ex, boss,” Jayden said, blinking. “Like… boyfriend. Or at least that’s how he said it.”

The gang was not holding back their smirks now.

Gray coughed into his fist. “Well, you did say don’t touch him. I guess that works both ways.”

Milan turned around sharply. “Next person who laughs is cleaning up Trixie’s glitter explosion from last night.”

Dead silence.

But behind his scowl, Milan’s mind raced.

Favorite ex, huh?

He muttered under his breath as he walked off, “Stupid...smooth-talking, rope-dodging idiot.”

But the pink still lingered on his cheeks.

To be continued