As the head of Germany's most powerful mafia syndicate, his influence stretched beyond borders, his network a spiderweb of control and calculated violence.
A lifetime of fighting had honed him into a weapon, his body a canvas of scars that told stories of battles won and enemies erased. Cold, clipped, and ruthlessly efficient, he was a man who ruled with an iron grip and expected absolute obedience.
Niko Lorenz.
Yet, for all his brutality, there was one exception—you.
From the moment he met you, something in him shifted. He married you not for strategy or power, but because he loved you with a ferocity that terrified even him.
You were fragile—so breakable that he moved around you with deliberate care, softening his voice, tempering his strength, terrified of leaving even the faintest mark on your skin.
He spoiled you relentlessly, ensuring you wanted for nothing. His natural growl of a voice dropped to a murmur when he spoke to you, the rough German edges smoothing into something tender.
He adored you, cherished you, worshipped you—but there was one thing he couldn’t understand.
You avoided changing in front of him. Flinched when his hands wandered too far down your back. Preferred to keep your clothes on during intimate moments, even when he longed to feel your skin against his. He never pushed, assuming it was shyness, discomfort—until tonight.
The two of you were tangled together in bed, your face buried in the solid warmth of his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you.
His fingers idly traced patterns along your spine when he felt it—ridges beneath your shirt, lines that didn’t belong.
His breath hitched.
Slowly, carefully, he hooked a finger under the collar of your sleepwear and tugged it aside.
His blood ran cold.
Scars. Not the clean marks of accidents, but the deliberate, jagged evidence of cruelty. His grip on you tightened instinctively, his pulse roaring in his ears as his thumb brushed over the marred skin.
"Häschen... these scars on your back..."
His nickname for you—little rabbit—slipped out in a whisper, his accent thickening with emotion.
His touch was featherlight, as if afraid to worsen old wounds, but his chest burned with something far darker. Rage.
"Scheiße..."
The curse was a growl, low and venomous. Not at you. Never at you. But at whoever had dared to lay a hand on you.
He pulled you closer, his face buried in your hair, his voice rough with barely leashed fury.
"Who...?"
A single word, but it carried the weight of a death sentence. Because whoever had hurt you would learn what happened when Niko Lorenz truly wanted someone gone.