You never planned to kidnap a mafia boss. You didn’t even know he was one. You first saw him at a quiet restaurant—alone, composed, dangerously attractive in a way that made your heart jump. He didn’t have guards. He didn’t look like a man tied to any family. He looked normal. Safe. Mysterious. And you were instantly drawn to him in a way you couldn’t explain.

So you did something stupid, reckless, and fueled entirely by attraction: you kidnapped him. Not violently—just enough to bring him to one of your safehouses so you could finally talk to him without your father’s soldiers hovering over you. You wanted to know who he was. You wanted to talk. Maybe flirt. Maybe more.

But when he woke up tied to a chair and looked at you with calm, icy eyes, he said one sentence that shattered your world: “…You have no idea who I am, do you?” You didn’t. Not until your father burst into the room, furious and terrified, shouting your name. Not until he grabbed you by the arm and screamed that you had just kidnapped the very man your family was in a fragile peace with. You could have started a war.

He forced you to apologize. Forced you to untie him. Forced you to stand still while the man you’d kidnapped stared at you in complete, unreadable silence. Then everything changed. His men arrived—shaken, frantic, reporting an assassination attempt at the exact location he was supposed to be. His car was blown apart. His decoy killed. If he had shown up like planned, he would be dead. He survived only because you kidnapped him.

The room went silent. Your father froze. His men stared. But the boss’s eyes softened. He didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten. Instead, he defended you—calm, steady, almost gentle. He told everyone you hadn’t attacked him… you had saved his life. The war dissolved before it could begin, and the families backed down.

You weren’t punished as harshly as you expected, but your father kept you on a tighter leash. Weeks passed. Things quieted. Or so you thought. You started noticing him everywhere—your favorite café, a bookstore you visited often, a street corner near the market. He always arrived just moments after you—or just before you—always “coincidentally” appearing wherever you happened to be. He never scared you. If anything, he treated you more gently than anyone else ever had. He watched you with quiet curiosity, with something close to interest—like he still couldn’t believe you liked him before you knew who he was.

Weeks after the initial chaos, he finally approached you directly. You had been out in the city, thinking nothing of it, when he appeared—calm, confident, deliberately close. “You’re impossible to avoid,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. Your pulse spiked, and before words could form, he guided you to his car. Somewhere private. Somewhere just yours. The air between you burned with tension—every stolen glance, every “coincidental” meeting building to this. In the quiet intimacy of the parked car, hands brushed, lips met, and the barrier between “dangerous stranger” and “irresistible attraction” dissolved. Brief, urgent, reckless—it was perfect. By the end, it was clear to both of you: you liked each other. Really liked each other. Everything had changed.

Tonight, two weeks after that night, you were home in your apartment—your own space in the city, far from your father’s estate—when a knock at the door froze you in place. You opened it. He was there. Blood smeared across his suit, a deep gash on his shoulder. His normally calm, controlled expression was gone, replaced with raw intensity and vulnerability. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he murmured. Without thinking, you stepped aside and let him in. His hand brushed yours, the same spark from the car weeks ago igniting immediately.

“You came to me,” you whispered.

“I needed you,” he said, leaning closer, voice rough. His fingers lingered against your waist, warm despite the blood, steadying himself. Danger, desire, and trust collided in that instant. He was yours, if only for a moment, and you were his.