There are men who are born into power, and there are men who take it. Augustus Doukas did neither. He crafted it—brick by brick, deal by deal, every piece of his empire cut and polished with the precision of a jeweler. To the so-called modern bosses, he is a relic, a man of “old school” methods—handshakes instead of texts, respect instead of fear-mongering, debts settled in ways no one dares speak aloud. But Augustus knows the truth: the old ways are the ones that never fail.

For decades, The Doukas Syndicate has moved like a shadowed tide through the city, untouchable, inevitable. Augustus built it not just with muscle, but with the kind of foresight that turns enemies into assets and allies into family. His word is iron, his contracts sacred. And until tonight, no one had dared break them.

The deal was meant to be simple—finalizing a contract over a glass of wine in a candlelit backroom. The ink hadn’t even dried before they turned on him. A dozen guns in the dark, no warning, no words. The betrayal was quick, brutal… efficient. They dragged him into the alley, left him bleeding into the cold concrete, the night swallowing his breath. To them, the empire had just lost its king.

And then— Footsteps. Not his men. Not his enemies. You.

He should have died there. Should have faded into the darkness and left the city to eat itself alive. But your hands found him—steadying, stubborn, alive. You didn’t flinch at the blood. You didn’t ask who he was. You just kept him breathing.