⚠️ WARNING MATURED CONTENT⚠️

(SUMMER POV)

The sun was already slipping lower in the sky when I left the hospital. My legs felt heavy, but I couldn't afford to rest. The bus ride back was slow, every bump rattling through the metal frame. I stared out the window, watching the city blur by. Somewhere behind me, my mother's voice still echoed in my head:

"Fix your hair, Summer. Be decent."

I almost smiled. Almost.

By the time I reached the street where I worked, the sky had turned orange-gray. The alley smelled of smoke, sweat, and frying oil, the same scent that clung to me every night. The club's neon sign flickered weakly overhead, buzzing like a dying fly. I pulled open the back door and slipped inside.

The noise hit me immediately, music thumping from the main room, voices shouting orders, and the faint smell of cheap perfume mixing with liquor. I barely had time to breathe before someone shouted my name.

"SUMMER!"

I turned. It was Marco, one of the senior staff. His face was red, his tie half undone. He stomped toward me, waving his clipboard like a weapon.

"You're late!" he snapped. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

I opened my mouth to explain, but he cut me off.

"Don't even start with excuses! The boss is already pissed. You were supposed to be here an hour ago!"

"I came from the hospital-"

"I don't care where you came from!" he barked. "You're working tonight, so move! Go take a shower now and wear this!"

He shoved a bundle of clothes into my hands, a black dress, tight and simple, with a pair of heels dangling from the fabric.

"Quickly!" he snapped. "You smell like smoke and sweat. We have VIP guests tonight, and you can't show up looking like a stray cat!"

I clenched my jaw. The old Summer might've snapped back, but I bit my tongue. I needed the job. I needed the money.

"Fine," I muttered.

He pointed to the small dressing room at the end of the hall. "Five minutes!"

I walked toward it, my shoulders stiff. The moment the door shut behind me, I dropped the clothes onto the chair and turned on the shower. The water sputtered, then came out cold. I gasped as it hit my skin, but I didn't care. I scrubbed hard, washing away the grime, the blood, the dust from the streets, the memory of the fight.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and let the water run down my face. I thought of my mother again, her fragile smile, her hand on my cheek. "Brush your hair, hija."

When I stepped out, steam filled the small room. I dried off quickly and slipped into the dress. It fit snugly, hugging my waist and shoulders. The heels were a little too tall, but I'd walked in perfectly.

I walked over to the cracked mirror and looked at my reflection. My hair was a tangled mess from the wind. My skin looked pale under the harsh light. I sighed and picked up the small makeup kit from my locker, foundation, a bit of eyeliner, red lipstick. I moved slowly, carefully, like my mother was watching me from that hospital bed.

"Be decent," I whispered under my breath.

The eyeliner sharpened my eyes. The lipstick made me look alive again. I brushed my hair until it shone under the light, then tied it loosely at the back, letting a few strands fall over my face. For the first time in a long while, I didn't look tired, I looked ready.

When I stepped out of the dressing room, Marco looked me over and gave a sharp nod. "Finally," he said, his tone softer now. "That's more like it. The guests are already here, table seven. Try to smile."

I forced a small grin, grabbed my tray, and walked toward the main floor.

As I passed the hallway mirror again, I caught my reflection. Clean face, neat hair, red lips, my mother's voice whispered faintly in my head, almost proud.

And for a brief second, I felt like I wasn't just surviving. I was trying.

I walked into the bar, looking sexy in my short dress. Men stared at my body as I passed. I found a stool at the bar and sat down, crossing my legs so my thigh showed. The bartender saw me and nodded. He knew what I was there for.

"Whiskey, neat," I said, putting money on the bar. The whiskey burned as I drank it. I looked around the room, searching for men with money who might want to pay for my services.

I saw a group of rich businessmen in a corner booth. They checked me out with hungry eyes. I knew they were rich by their expensive suits and the way they acted like they owned the place.

I started walked over to their booth and a man stood up to greet me. "Hello there, beautiful," he said, looking at my body. "What brings you here?"

"I wanted to meet an interesting man," I replied. "Someone who knows how to make a woman feel good."

The man smiled and moved so I could sit next to him. His hand grabbed my thigh. "I can make you feel amazing," he whispered in my ear. "Like you never have before."

I shivered. I knew men like him, they thought they were in charge but really I held the power. I could make them do what they wanted.

Leaning close, I touched his face. "I bet you can," I said in a sexy voice. "But first, buy me another drink. Then we'll see what happens."

The man grinned and got me another whiskey. As we drank, I flirted and teased, making him want me more. I knew it wouldn't be long before he took me somewhere private, eager to fuck.

Until then, I played my role, seducing men, making them believe they had control when really I did. It was how I survived in a world that demanded submission. I had learned to use my body to get what I needed.

I kept playing the game, pretending to enjoy the men's attention and touches. Deep down, I felt empty inside. But I had to keep up the act, had to pretend I wanted this life.

I could feel the man's eyes roaming over my body as he closed the door to the private room behind us. I knew that look all too well, the hunger, the desire to possess and control.

"Strip for me," he growled, his voice rough with lust. "I want to see what I'm paying for."

I nodded, playing along. I reached back to unzip my dress, letting it pool at my feet and leaving myself standing there in nothing but with lacy bra and panties. The man's eyes darkened as he took in my curves, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"Fuck, you're even hotter than I thought," he murmured, moving closer to run his hands over my body. "I can't wait to get my hands on you."

I got shivered at his touch, at the harshness of his grip as he squeezed my tits through the thin lace of my bra. This was what I had to offer, my body, my submission, the illusion that I wanted this as much as he did.

The man reached around to unclasp my bra, letting it fall to the floor and exposing my bare breasts to his hungry gaze. He bent down to take one nipple into his mouth, sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud until I couldn't help but moan.

"Yes, just like that," I gasped, arching my back to push more of my flesh against him. "Suck on my tits, make me feel good."

The man grinned up at me, his hand moving down to cup my pussy through my panties. "Oh, I'll make you feel good," he promised darkly. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight."

I shuddered at his words, at the promise of pleasure and pain. I knew what he wanted, to use my body for his own gratification, to treat me like a disposable object.

But it was what I had to offer, what I had trained myself to provide. So I played along, letting him strip off my panties and expose my glistening folds to his hungry eyes.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he growled, running a finger along my slit. "You want it bad, don't you? Want my big cock inside you."

"Yes," I panted, spreading my legs wider in invitation. "I need it. I need you to fuck me hard."

The man wasted no time, shoving two fingers inside my tight channel and pumping them in and out. I cried out at the sudden intrusion, my hips bucking against his hand as he fingered me roughly.

"Please," I begged, my voice high and breathy with need. "Fuck me with your cock. I want to feel you stretching me open."

The man smirked, pulling his fingers out and replacing them with the head of his thick shaft. "Beg for it," he demanded, teasing me entrance with shallow thrusts. "Tell me how badly you need my cock."

"Please," I whimpered, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "I need you inside me. I need you to fuck me hard and make me come all over your cock. Please, just give it to me!"

The man grunted in satisfaction, gripping my hips and slamming forward to bury himself balls-deep inside my sopping cunt. I screamed at the sudden invasion, my pussy clenching around him as he began to pound into me relentlessly.

"Fuck, yes," he snarled, his hips snapping back and forth as he drilled into me. "Your pussy feels so good around my cock. I'm going to ruin you for any other man."

I could only moan in response, lost in the pleasure and pain of being so thoroughly used. I knew this was what he wanted, to claim me, to make me his property for a brief moment in time.

And so I gave in, surrendering myself completely to the sensations coursing through my body. I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper as he fucked me with abandon.

"Yes, fuck me harder," I cried out. "Fuck me until I can't take anymore."

The man growled, pounding into me with renewed ferocity. I could feel my orgasm building, could sense the impending rush of ecstasy that would sweep over me.

"Come for me," he demanded, his voice tight with his own impending release. "Come all over my cock, baby! Taste it! "

And with a scream of pleasure, I came undone, my pussy clamping down around him as wave after wave of intense bliss crashed over me. The man followed a moment later, spilling his hot seed deep inside me convulsing cunt as he shuddered with his own climax.

For a moment, we lay there panting, our bodies still joined as the aftershocks of our mutual pleasure faded away. But I knew it wouldn't last, soon he would pull out, tuck himself away, and leave me empty and used once more.

And I would be left to pick up the pieces of myself, to try and piece together the fractured remains of my humanity in the aftermath of yet another transaction. But for now, I closed my eyes and let myself drift in the lingering sensations, knowing that at least for a little while, I had survived.

"Thanks for tonight, baby!" The man said before leaving me again naked.

⚠️ WARNING CONTAINS DRUGS & CIGARETTES ⚠️

Alexander POV

The rain hasn't stopped since last night. It's hitting the glass windows of my mansion like it's trying to break in. The thunder outside sounds like gunshots, but I'm used to that sound. I live in a world where death and money always come together.

I'm sitting at the head of a long table in the meeting room. My men are talking, about shipments, drugs, and rivals. The smell of cigar smoke mixes with whiskey and power. Everyone looks serious, but my mind... it's somewhere else.

I'm not thinking about the business. I'm not thinking about my enemies. I'm thinking about her.

SUMMER.

That girl. The one who shouldn't mean anything to me, but somehow does. It's been a week since that night, but her face keeps appearing in my head like a scar I can't erase. I remember how her eyes looked, afraid but strong. How her voice trembled when she spoke. How her touch made me feel something I thought I'd buried a long time ago.

She was supposed to be just another woman. Just one night. But when I left her, I felt... empty.

I've dealt with women who begged for my attention, who cried just to stay beside me. But she was different. She didn't beg. She didn't cry. She just looked at me, as if she could see through the man everyone feared.

And that's what's bothering me. No one looks at Alexander De Rossi like that.

"Boss," Rico, one of the reapers, says from across the table. "The Black Serpents are moving guns through the north docks again."

I blink and try to focus. "Handle it quietly," I said, my voice cold and steady. "No witnesses. If anyone talks, make them disappear."

He nods. The rest of the men keep talking, numbers, routes, bribes. I should be listening, but their voices fade into the background. I can't stop thinking about that night.

Why her? Why do I keep seeing her face?

I pick up my glass of whiskey and stare at it. The golden liquid shakes slightly in my hand. I take a slow sip, but even that doesn't calm me down.

Marco, my right-hand man, leans close. "Boss, are you okay? You seem... off."

I give him a sharp look. "I'm fine," I say flatly.

He doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push. No one ever pushes me.

But he's right. I am off. My focus is gone.

I can't stop thinking about her, her voice, her smell, her warmth. The way her body trembled when I touched her, not out of fear, but something deeper.

Something inside me tells me that girl isn't normal. There's something hidden in her, something I can't explain. I don't know what it is, but I feel it. And that feeling won't leave me alone.

The meeting continues. One of my lieutenants stands and says, "Boss, the Serpents killed two of our men last night. Do we hit back?" I look up slowly. The room goes quiet. Every man in here is waiting for my answer.

I stand and button my suit. "Not yet," I say. "Let them think they're in control. Then, when they get too comfortable, we strike. Hard and final."

My tone leaves no room for argument. The men nod in silence. "Understood, Boss."

They keep talking, but I stop listening. My eyes drift to the large window beside me. The rain looks endless. For a moment, I see her reflection there, Summer, like a ghost staring back at me.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the image, but it doesn't go away. I shouldn't care about her. I shouldn't even remember her. She's nothing, just a girl I met once, in a club place, living a hard life. But my chest feels heavy when I think of her.

That's the problem. I've spent years making sure nothing touches me, no pain, no emotion, no weakness. And now, one girl I barely know is making me feel everything.

When the meeting finally ends, everyone leaves. The room goes silent again. I sit alone with my thoughts. I pour another drink, the sound of the liquid echoing in the quiet room. I run a hand through my hair and close my eyes.

All I can see is her. Her eyes. Her lips. Her pain.

"Summer..." I whisper, her name soft against the silence. It feels strange saying it, like I'm breaking my own rule.

I don't even know who she really is. But I can't stop thinking that there's something inside her, something dark, something familiar.

Maybe I'm going crazy. Or maybe... fate is playing with me again.

I've lived too long in this world of guns and betrayal. Nothing surprises me anymore. But her, she's different.

And for the first time in years, I feel something I don't understand.

I hate it. I want to forget her.

But I can't.

I finish my drink and set the glass down. The storm outside grows louder, almost mocking me. No matter how much I try to fight it, I know the truth.

That girl, Summer...She's already under my skin.

And I'll find her again, not because I want to.

But because I need to.

She left something in me that night. Something I'll never be able to erase.

The call came late, and my heart jumped when I saw Rico's name. I picked up without thinking.

"We found her," Rico said, voice low and quick.

Relief hit me like a cool wind. Relief, sudden and sharp, because at last the empty ache in my chest had a place to go. I had been carrying that unknown weight for a day, and now someone had handed me a direction. It felt like a small victory, stupid and immediate.

"Where?" I asked.

"West village. By the old market," he said. "She's there, Boss. But... they're hurting her."

My breath tightened. "Who's with her?"

There was a short pause. "Seven men. Locals. Thugs. They have her cornered."

The word thudded in my ears. "Keep watching," I told him. I didn't say go. I didn't order anyone to move. I let the quiet sit there, heavy and hot. "Tell me everything you see."

Rico listed what he could, where they stood, how they moved, the path they would take if they left. He said the thugs looked sharp with wine and anger. He said Summer was scared, trying to hide. I closed my eyes and pictured her small face in the dark, and the image burned under my skin.

"I'm coming," I said finally, but it was softer than a command. It was a promise to myself.

---

. The Reapers, were briefed and waiting. We did not rush into noise. We moved with the slow, certain steps of men who knew when to strike. The city was still sleeping under a gray sky, the rain from last night making the streets slick and dark.

When we reached the west village, the smell of wet trash and smoke hit me. People peered through shutters, or they did not look at all. The market stalls stood empty like open wounds.

Rico pointed without words. The alley was narrow, narrow enough that sound stuck there like dirt. I stepped in and my boots made no sound. The closer I got, the louder everything became in my head, her cries, the thud of fists, the soft curse of the rain.

And then I saw them.

Seven men. They were bigger than beggars, dressed in old jackets, faces stubbled and hard. They stood around her like they owned the space. One had his hand on her wrist, another's fist rose again. They did not flinch at our arrival, because they did not expect anyone with real power to care.

Summer was small on the ground. Her dress was stuck to her skin. Mud glued her hair to her temple. She tried to curl into herself but there was no hiding. Her eyes met mine for the shortest time, and something raw passed between us, guilt, fear, and a tiny, desperate hope.

Rage tasted like cold steel in my mouth. I felt it coil under my ribs and then snap into movement.

"Get them," I said to Rico, my voice flat, sharp with command. The Reapers moved like trained shadows.

The alley turned alive. Men shouted and scattered when the Reapers closed in, fast, precise, no mercy. I stepped forward and the air changed. I watched as fists fell away and the thugs realized they faced something bigger than them. The fight did not last long. It never did when my men were involved.

I pushed through the mess of bodies and rain to her side. She flinched when I reached to lift her. Her cheek was split, and her lip bled. Her breaths came short and fast like someone who had been running too long.

"You," I said, looking at the nearest thug. My voice was a low blade. "Who sent you?"

He spat, trying to be brave. "It's.... We- we thought she-"

"You thought what?" I asked. My hand tightened on his collar until he gagged. I wanted to hear him beg. I wanted him to remember this fear.

He choked out, "She's a whore. Someone said she was spying on the wrong men. We just-"

Lies slipped easy from weak mouths. The words did not matter. I looked back at her. She clasped her arms around her knees, trying to hide more of herself. Her eyes were red and rimmed with tears, but she did not cry loudly. She had learned to be small and quiet.

I set my jaw. "Take them," I ordered. "Tie their hands. Bring them to the car."

They moved under command and pushed the men forward. The thugs stomped like animals, spitting and cursing, but the truth was plain in their faces, afraid. Afraid of being seen to have touched someone under my shadow.

I lifted Summer into my arms more gently than I thought I could. She was lighter than I expected. Her body trembled against me. For a second she buried her face in my chest, and I felt the quick, ragged beat of her heart. It sounded like a drum calling me to things I had no name for.

On the walk back, she clung to me like someone holding onto faith. I kept my voice low, "You're safe." She looked up at me with eyes that were too old for her face. "Why?" she whispered. "Why did you-"

"Because I could not let them do it," I said. The words were a truth I didn't want to examine. I would not give her pity. I would not kiss her wounds to make them scar less. But I could not leave her in that dirt.

Back in the car, the city passed in gray lines. The Reapers watched the bound thugs in the rear. Summer sat wrapped in a blanket, breathing shallowly. I felt the world tighten into a narrow line: protect her, find who sent them, and never let her be small again.

At the mansion, the doctor cleaned her cuts with hands that did not tremble. He wrapped the wounds and gave her pills to dull the pain. I stayed at the window, watching the rain fall and worrying about the shape of things to come.

But first, I would keep her safe.

She had come into my life like a storm I never planned for. Now she was there, in my house, bandaged and breathing. My hands curled into fists at the thought of any other man touching her.

I promised myself then, soft as a vow and hard as steel: whoever used her body, whoever called her names, whoever thought she could be broken, would learn the meaning of my anger.

For now, she slept with a blanket over her knees. I sat near and watched. The night was long, and the rain kept falling, but in that quiet I felt a new kind of hunger, one that had nothing to do with power or control. It had something to do with holding what mattered and not letting it go.

Summer's POV

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the warmth.

The second is the smell, faint smoke, mint, and rain.

The ceiling above me isn't cracked or stained. The sheets are silk, soft against my skin. It takes me a full minute to realize I'm not lying on the street or some dirty floor. I'm in a bed. A real one.

And then I see him.

Alexander De Rossi.

He's sitting in the corner of the room, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves rolled up, smoke from his cigarette curling through the air. The dim light from the lamp turns the side of his face golden, making his eyes look darker, deeper. He's staring at the window, but I can tell he's not really seeing it.

He looks... tired. Haunted, maybe.

But beautiful in a way I don't want to admit.

I shift a little, wincing when pain shoots up my ribs. The soft sound I make must've caught his attention, because his head snaps toward me instantly.

"You're awake," he says. His voice is low, rough, like he hasn't slept.

"Where am I?"

"My place." He stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray. "You fainted after the doctor left. I wasn't sure if you'd wake up tonight."

His words make my chest tighten. "You stayed?"

He leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. "I wasn't going to leave you alone."

The way he says it, quiet, steady, honest, makes my heart stumble. Men like him don't sound like that.

I look away, trying to hide the heat rising in my cheeks. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

He pauses, and then his voice softens. "But I wanted to."

My pulse quickens. There's a silence between us now, not awkward, but heavy, charged. His gaze lingers on me, tracing the lines of my face as if memorizing that I'm still here, still breathing.

He stands and walks closer. Every step of his boots echoes inside my chest. He reaches the bedside table and pours me a glass of water. His fingers brush mine when he hands it to me, a brief, electric touch that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Drink," he murmurs.

I obey without thinking. His hand stays close, steadying the glass when my hand trembles. His palm is warm. He smells like smoke and rain.

When I finish, I whisper, "Thank you... for saving me."

He looks at me for a long time before replying. "Don't thank me for that, Summer."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't do it to be a hero." His gaze drops to my lips before finding my eyes again. "I did it because I couldn't stand seeing someone touch what's mine."

My breath catches.

"Yours?" I whisper, unsure if I heard him right.

He exhales sharply, as if realizing what he just said. But he doesn't take it back. "You don't understand it yet," he says, voice low, husky. "But you will."

My heartbeat won't calm down. His eyes hold mine, dark, intense, dangerous, but behind all that fire, I see something else. Worry. Guilt. Need.

He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. The scent of whiskey and smoke clings to his shirt, but beneath that, there's something softer, warmth I didn't expect from a man like him.

"You should rest," he murmurs, adjusting the blanket over me. His fingers graze my collarbone, and I forget how to breathe.

He hesitates, like he wants to say more, then quietly adds, "You're safe here, Summer. I promise."

I want to believe him.

And when I look into his eyes, I do.

I close my eyes for a moment, and before I know it, I feel his hand brush my hair away from my face. Gentle. Careful. As if touching me might break something inside him.

"Sleep," he says softly, almost like a whisper meant only for me.

My body relaxes, but my heart won't stop racing. I can feel him still sitting there beside me, guarding me like a secret.

And before the darkness pulls me back under, I hear his voice again, low and almost tender.

"Don't ever scare me like that again."

I wish I could answer. But all I can do is dream of the man who shouldn't care... yet somehow does.