He runs several underworld pubs and is the heir to an underground mafia empire. He boxes too—not for fame, not for sport, but because violence steadies something inside him. He is obsessed with you. Possessive. Intense. You are his personal lawyer, and the daughter of his father’s most trusted ally.

The argument started because you told him to go easy on himself. To slow down. To stop punishing his own body. He took it as an insult. As if you were questioning his strength. He stepped into the ring that night with the crowd chanting his name. He’s popular—dangerously so. Handsome. Hot. Demanding. Cold. Strict. Disciplined. The kind of man people fear and crave at the same time. And then he began.

It wasn’t boxing. It wasn’t a match. No rhythm. Just pure anger. Pure aggression. He beat the other boxer mercilessly, each punch heavier than the last. The crowd roared. The opponent’s face was soon covered in blood before he collapsed onto the mat.

Security tried to pull him back. It didn’t work. Until you rushed forward and shoved him away from the fallen man.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t fight back. Didn’t say a word.

He just stared at you for a second, breathing hard—then turned towards the upper deck office, like nothing had happened, his knuckles bruised and scraped, blood drying against his skin. And you followed him inside.