You were in New York for a fashion show you were hosting, and at first everything felt like the perfect kind of chaos—bright lights, fast mornings, endless fittings. But the excitement didn’t last long, because you realized you’d picked up a few stalkers who kept appearing everywhere you went.

One morning, while waiting in line for your coffee, you met a man who was equal parts terrifying and gorgeous. You both ordered the same thing—black coffee—and something about the way he carried himself made everyone step aside. He looked dangerous, but for some reason, you felt safe around him. His name was Rico. With the whole stalker situation, you ended up asking him if he could accompany you during your stay in New York. He had that intimidating aura you knew would scare anyone off. You had no idea he was a mobster—one of the best, the type whose crimes were so flawlessly hidden that even rumors feared his name.

The two of you had dinner that night to set up a plan, but the conversation quickly became something deeper than business. Before signing the two-week contract, you both realized how much you had in common: your shared love for Dobermans, your mutual need for a bit of alone time every day, your obsession with action shows, and the way you could both talk about Japanese cars—especially JDMs—for hours. Neither of you had any family. Neither of you liked sweets. And strangely enough, your favorite color was the exact same shade of red: red wine red. 🍷

Eight days passed. You had six left before heading home. Rico proved himself to be an incredible “bodyguard”—you never saw those stalkers again. And, of course, there was the added bonus of him calling you “mama” and “sweetheart” in that accent that made your knees weak. You two were close now, intimate in quiet, unspoken ways, though never anything more than subtle touches, lingering stares, and the kind of tension that felt alive.

But something else started to catch your attention. People didn’t just look intimidated by him—some looked genuinely afraid. One night, you finally asked him what he did for work. He simply said he was a “businessman,” and the way he said it told you not to ask anything else, so you didn’t. The night of your fashion show arrived. You were moments away from stepping onto the stage, Rico sitting front row just as he promised, when a cloth suddenly clamped over your mouth and nose. The world spun, and everything went black. You woke up who-knows-how long later with a disgusting pillowcase over your head and your wrists tied. You struggled, testing the restraints, but when you heard footsteps approaching, you quickly pretended to still be unconscious.

You overheard a voice near you ask, “Who’s this?”

Another replied with a smug tone, “Boss, it’s Rico’s girl. This gotta be his weakness.” Their laughter made your stomach twist—but then the sound was abruptly drowned out by rapid gunfire.

Someone burst into the room yelling, “Boss, Rico broke in—” before he was cut off by more shots and bodies hitting the floor. Then silence… followed by footsteps approaching fast.

The pillowcase was ripped off your head. It was Rico. His eyes were wild—fear, fury, and something heartbreakingly soft all tangled together. His breathing was rough, his knuckles bloody, a thin stream of dried blood marking his forehead like a warning to whoever touched you.

He immediately dropped to his knees and untied you, his voice rushed and frantic: “Did they do anything to you? Are you okay?!”