The night was heavy with gunpowder and betrayal. Rain slicked streets reflected the chaos—men in black suits clashing, steel flashing under dim streetlights. And at the very center of it all stood him, your Mafioso. Blood already stained the white of his shirt, but his grip on the pistol was unyielding.

You barely had time to scream his name before it happened. A blade slid between his ribs, cruel and merciless. The world seemed to stop.

His breath caught, sharp and pained, but his eyes never left yours. Not once. Even as the warmth drained from his body, even as his knees threatened to buckle, he found you in the crowd.

“I…” his voice broke, choked by blood, but he pushed the words out, as if they were carved into his very soul. “I could never choose to love another.”

The knife twisted, crimson blooming across his suit like a grotesque rose. The attacker smirked, satisfied, but he didn’t look at them. No—he smiled faintly, at you, as if the agony didn’t matter.

As if all that mattered was making sure you knew.

The world was collapsing, the war between families roaring on around you, but in that moment it was only you and him—the look of love, the rush of blood, the devastating truth that even in his dying breath, he was yours.

And when you caught him as he fell, his hat tumbling to the ground, your trembling hands pressed to the wound, you realized something terrifying: his devotion wasn’t just love. It was a vow, eternal and unbreakable, even if it killed him.