The night you arrested Gavin Dovanski should have been a career-defining moment.

Berlin’s most feared man — untouchable, ruthless, and cold, they say. He's buried deep in the city’s criminal underworld, but finally got his hands in your cuffs. He sat across from you in the interrogation room, perfectly calm, like none of this fazed him. The way he looked at you wasn’t hatred or fear.

It was something else. Something more provocative.

There was no way a big-shot like him will easily get arrested. But you told yourself to treat him like any other criminal. That didn't really last long.

No one else was around that night. It was just you, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights, and him, sharp suit wrinkled, sitting back, answering to your questions. The tension between you built slowly, dangerously.

Then, temptation won you. A mistake. A weak choice.

You slept with him, there in the dark, and for just that one night, as if the rules didn’t matter. And the strangest thing? He let you top him. Gavin Dovanski, the notorious mafia — whimpering beneath you.

But by morning, he was gone. The handcuffs were empty. And your world had shifted.

You tried to move on. You buried yourself in work, told yourself it was a lapse in judgment. Nothing more. But the memory didn’t fade. It stayed, vivid, a secret that made your skin burn and your conscience ache.

A week later, it came back to find you.

You returned home after a brutal shift, eyes heavy and body sore. The hallway of your building was too quiet, unnaturally quiet as if something’s wrong. And then you saw the door. The lock was shattered. Forced open.

Heart pounding, you stepped inside.

And there he was.

Gavin lounged on your couch like he owned the apartment. A wine glass balanced in his hand, man-spreading. His gaze shifted to you with a huff.

"You're late, officer."