⚠️ 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.

SUMMER'S POV

Warm sunlight slipped through the curtains, soft and golden. For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The sheets beneath me were smooth, the scent of clean linen and something faintly masculine filled the air, expensive cologne, familiar and comforting.

Then memory hit me like cold water. The alley. The men. His voice.

Alexander.

My eyes flew open. I was in a wide room, ceiling high, curtains heavy and velvet-dark. It wasn't a hospital. It wasn't my apartment. It was his mansion.

I pushed myself up, wincing as a dull ache pulsed through my arm. Bandages. My wrist was wrapped, my cheek tender. On the bedside table, a tray held a glass of water and medicine. Someone had taken care of me.

Someone-him.

But when my gaze darted to the clock on the wall, my breath caught.

10:47 a.m.

My heart dropped. "Mom," I whispered, voice shaking.

I threw off the blanket and jumped from the bed, ignoring the pain that shot through my side. I was supposed to visit her early. She hated being alone at the hospital, especially in the mornings when the nurses changed shifts. I promised her I'd bring her breakfast today.

Panic clawed up my throat. I grabbed my old jeans and the first shirt I found on the chair beside the bed. My hands were trembling as I tried to zip the bag I'd found near the couch.

But before I could reach the door-

"Going somewhere?"

His voice. Deep. Calm. Dangerous in the way it made my pulse skip.

I froze.

Alexander stood by the doorway, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His hair was slightly tousled, and the faintest trace of a smirk curved his lips.

He looked too composed, too perfect, and I was a mess, barefoot and panicked.

"My mom," I blurted, barely able to breathe. "She's in the hospital, I-I overslept. I need to go."

He studied me for a second, then stepped forward. "You're still recovering. You shouldn't be running around."

"I don't care," I said, tears threatening to fall. "She's sick. I have to go, please move."

He didn't.

Instead, he reached out, gently taking my wrist. His touch was firm, warm, grounding. "I'll take you."

"What?" I blinked.

"I'll drive you there," he said simply, as if it was non-negotiable. "Get your things. You're not going alone."

"But you don't have to-"

"I'm not asking," he interrupted softly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm coming."

Something in his eyes, calm but possessive, made my words die in my throat.

---

The ride was quiet at first. Rain had stopped, but the streets were still damp, sunlight reflecting off puddles. The air inside his black car smelled like leather and faint cologne. I sat beside him, my fingers fiddling with the hem of my shirt, trying not to look at him too much.

Alexander drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his knee. His jawline was sharp against the morning light, and his eyes flicked to me occasionally, unreadable.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I turned to him. "Why are you doing this?"

He glanced at me briefly. "Doing what?"

"All of this," I said, voice trembling slightly. "Saving me. Letting me stay in your house. Now driving me to the hospital. You barely know me."

He didn't answer right away. His hand tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "Maybe I don't need to know you to care," he said at last.

I stared at him, confused. "That doesn't make sense."

He smirked faintly. "Not everything has to."

Silence settled between us again, heavy but warm. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me even when he wasn't looking. Something in the way he said those words made my heart beat faster, though I tried to ignore it.

When we stopped at a red light, he finally turned to face me. "You shouldn't have been there that night," he said, voice lower, rougher. "Those men... they would've killed you."

I swallowed hard. "I didn't have a choice."

He looked at me then, really looked like he was trying to read every secret written behind my eyes. "You always have a choice, Summer," he said quietly. "And from now on, you won't face it alone."

The light turned green, but he didn't move right away.

My heart thudded painfully. "What do you mean?"

He exhaled slowly, his gaze softening for the first time. "I'm not a man who believes in fate," he said. "But ever since that night happened to us, I can't stop thinking about you. I don't know if it's a curse or something else, but it's real."

I tried to look away, but his voice pulled me back like gravity.

He leaned slightly closer, eyes dark and unwavering. "You asked why I'm doing this?"

I nodded, breath shaky.

He smiled, slow, dangerous, but heartbreakingly gentle.

"Because you're going to marry me."

I froze, the world falling silent. "Wh–what?"

His lips curved into that same calm, confident smile. "You heard me."

Before I could speak, he started the car again, his hand brushing mine briefly on the gear shift. Electricity shot through me.

I turned to the window, my heart racing, my mind spinning, but one thought refused to leave.

He meant it.

Alexander De Rossi wasn't a man who joked. And somewhere deep inside, beyond fear and confusion, a small, dangerous part of me wondered what if he wasn't saying it as a threat?

What if it was a promise?