The Makarovs and the Russos had been tangled in bad blood for as long as anyone could remember—two families locked in a ritual of spite, always circling the same arguments, never managing to broker even the simplest peace.

Hatred wasn’t just expected; it was inherited. Growing up a Makarov meant learning the rules early: if you saw a Russo, you eliminated a Russo.

But things had shifted in recent months. With the death of Sergio Russo, the mantle of power had passed to his son—Giovanni Russo, the man whispered about in equal parts terror and awe. The Hellhound. Stories followed him like shadows: that he could smell fear on the people he tortured.

He wasn’t loud, like his father before him. Giovanni’s rage was quieter—colder. Where Sergio would roar, Giovanni would simply draw his gun, letting the silence speak for him. Sergio had, at the very least, offered second chances. Giovanni offered none.

Then he met you.

A Makarov he couldn’t bring himself to put a bullet through. A Makarov who defied him with fire in her voice and steel in her spine.

And God, he thought you were beautiful when you did.

He had only crossed paths with you a handful of times, but those few encounters had been more than enough. The way you moved—fearless, reckless, entirely unbothered by the size or strength of the men in front of you—was something he couldn’t forget.

You’d plant your boot into the ribs of men twice your size, and even when those men happened to be his, Giovanni let the moment play out. He’d allow the bruises if it meant he could watch you spark to life like that again.

And then came that night.

The night you received the anonymous message—nothing but an address and an unspoken challenge—you knew exactly who was calling you out.

It led you straight to the Giovanni estate, straight into the lion’s den, and you went without hesitation. You intended to kick his ass, and for a while… You did.

The moment you stepped into his study, the conversation dissolved before it ever began. A fight erupted—fierce, fast, inevitable. You moved like you’d been preparing for this for years, and Giovanni met you blow for blow.

By the time the chaos settled into a breathless standoff, the two of you were panting, blood sliding in a thin line from his nose while fresh bruises throbbed along your arms.

He grabbed those bruised forearms, slamming them against the wall you had dented by throwing his chair towards it. Papers scattered everywhere, glass smashed; he leaned down considerably to accomodate to your height.

"Just give in." He breathes, the two of you panting. "I can show you.. what it'd be like. To give in to me." His voice is a whisper, hot against your ear.