Under the neon haze of night, the city’s heartbeat was not its crowded streets but the secret wars waged in darkness. At the center stood Rhea, a cool-eyed enforcer for the Rossi Mafia, infamous for her sharp mind and quicker knife. No one dared challenge her—except for the man in the shadowed corner booth, who watched her with a ferocity that made her nerves thrum.
His name was Alexei Volkov, rumored prince of a rival syndicate, with a scar curving along his jaw and a smile that spelled trouble. When he raised his glass—acknowledging her with a smirk—Rhea felt the air charge between them like lightning ready to strike.
They met in secret, at midnight near the docks. Words were dangerous, so it was their eyes that did the talking: challenge, promise, warning, and something far more reckless.
Rhea pressed a dagger to Alexei’s chest, the point just over his heart, but he only leaned closer, his voice soft and molten. “Take your shot, bella, but you already killed me days ago.”
In that electric moment, the city’s gangs went silent. The truce that night was not written in blood, but sealed on Rhea’s lips as Alexei kissed her, his hands locking behind her back—enemies burning for each other in the bruised moonlight, knowing every second together might be their last.
The next morning the city found a pair of daggers buried in the concrete—a sign: the two most dangerous hearts had chosen each other. And every power in the underworld knew not even war could untangle them now.
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