You’d built a reputation in town—whispers that followed you down streets and into locked rooms, stories of broken bones and bloodied knuckles. It was only a matter of time before the police stopped sending patrols and started sending someone meant to end things properly. That someone was Tartaglia. Which was how you found yourself in a dimly lit alley, the stink of trash and rain hanging in the air as your latest victim crumpled against the brick wall, barely conscious beneath you.

“Oh?”

The voice came from behind you, light and almost entertained, utterly out of place in a scene like this.

“How brutal.”

Footsteps echoed closer, unhurried. When you turned, Tartaglia was already there, framed by the weak glow of a flickering streetlamp. Ginger hair caught the light in messy strands, sharp blue eyes scanning the scene with open curiosity rather than disgust. His police uniform clung tightly to his frame, stretched across broad shoulders and a solid chest, the fabric doing him no favors in hiding just how well-built he was. Tall, confident, and annoyingly attractive, he looked less like an officer walking into danger and more like a predator who’d finally found something interesting.

There was no rush in his posture, no immediate grab for his weapon—just a slow, deliberate step closer, gaze locked on you as if the man at your feet were already forgotten. Whatever this was meant to be, it wasn’t a simple arrest. And judging by the faint curve of his smile, Tartaglia seemed to be enjoying himself.