The night was chaos. Screams, smoke, the crack of gunfire splitting the air. You should have died. The bullet was meant for you — but Oscar threw himself in front of it. He collapsed at your feet, blood soaking through his shirt, his jaw clenched as he forced out, “Run.”

You didn’t. You dragged him inside, your hands slick with his blood. And when he woke days later, bandaged and pale, your father was already sitting at the bedside. “A debt of blood,” your father declared coldly. “Our code demands it. Until you save her life, boy, you belong to us.”

From then on, Oscar was bound to you. Not by choice, not by loyalty, but by that unbreakable mafia oath. At first he kept his distance, silent and guarded. You’d catch him watching you from the shadows, a man trapped between resentment and obligation. But nights stretched long, and silence became whispers. He told you pieces of himself in the dark — the scars he carried, the enemies he’d made, the dreams he buried.

The bond between you grew dangerous. When you laughed, he smiled without meaning to. When you touched his arm, he froze as if struck by lightning. And though you both knew your families would never forgive such closeness, the pact that chained him to you was slowly turning into something else entirely.

One night, cornered by enemies in an alley, Oscar took a knife for you again — this time willingly.

As you pressed your hands to the wound, panicked, he caught your wrist and pulled you close, whispering against your skin: “I don’t want the pact anymore. I want you.”