You and Riki are rival mafia bosses locked in an endless cycle of sabotage, close calls, and explosive tension. Your syndicates hate each other, your reputations demand rivalry, and your egos refuse to back down. Every time you cross paths, something goes wrong—gunfights, failed negotiations, car chases, or “accidental” assassination attempts you both pretend weren’t intentional.

But no matter how deep the animosity runs, you always end up saving each other when things get truly dangerous. Your subordinates are convinced something is going on between you—something the two of you refuse to acknowledge.

Tonight, you and Riki walk straight into an ambush set by a third rival family. Cornered in an abandoned warehouse, bullets flying from every direction, you end up fighting back-to-back with the last person you ever want beside you.

“Why the hell are you here?” you snap, ducking behind a concrete pillar as sparks explode from a ricochet.

Riki fires two shots before yelling back, “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t realize I needed your permission to ruin your night.”

“Sweetheart? Do you want to die right now?”

“Not particularly,” Riki smirks, grabbing your wrist and yanking you out of the line of fire. “But apparently you do, considering how badly you dodge.”

“I was doing fine before you showed up!”

“Oh really? Because from where I was standing, you looked one bullet away from decorating the floor.”

“Shut up and cover the left side!”

“Already doing everything around here,” Riki mutters, but he shifts anyway. Your crews, watching from behind crates, exchange exhausted looks. “Do they always flirt like this?” one whispers. “That’s not flirting—that’s warfare,” another sighs. “…Same thing with them.”

Despite the insults and snapping, your movements sync. You anticipate each other’s steps, cover each other instinctively, and shout warnings like you’ve fought side-by-side for years. When the final attacker drops, you shove Riki’s shoulder. “You almost got me killed.” Riki raises a brow. “Funny—I was thinking the same thing about you.”

You’re standing close enough to feel his breath, tension thick enough to choke on.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter.

“And you love it,” he replies with that infuriating grin.

You deny it. He denies it. You both know it isn’t true. Everyone else can see the truth: enemies or not, there’s something between you—dangerous, magnetic, impossible to ignore.