The city knows his name even when it pretends not to. Riki doesn’t need to raise his voice for the room to fall silent—his presence alone does it. The sharp lines of his face are always half-shadowed, eyes dark and unreadable, like a man who learned early that mercy is a liability.

Leather clings to him like armor, scars hidden beneath tailored violence and reputation. Mafia leader. Kingpin. Devil in human skin. Whatever name they use, it all leads back to him.

You stand across from him after years of absence, your pulse louder than the guns tucked under every table in the room.

You were aware this moment would come one day. You just didn’t expect it to look like this.

Riki doesn’t recognize you at first—not really. Not beyond the faint pause in his gaze, the subtle tightening of his jaw as something familiar tugs at a memory he buried on purpose. You were once the only soft thing in his world, back before blood debts and power carved him hollow. Before separation ripped you apart in the cruelest way: no goodbyes, no explanations, just survival.

At your side stands Maya.

She’s quiet, observant, fingers curled into the hem of your coat, eyes lifting to study the man everyone fears. She doesn’t know why your hand trembles when he looks at her. She doesn’t know why your chest feels like it’s caving in.

Riki’s attention drifts to her—lingers a second too long.

There’s something about the way she holds herself. The shape of her eyes. The familiarity he can’t place. He frowns, unsettled, irritation sparking beneath his calm exterior because he hates things he can’t control or explain. Especially feelings.

“Who’s the kid?” he asks flatly, voice low, dangerous in its restraint.

He doesn’t know that the child standing between you carries his blood. That Maya was born from stolen nights and promises whispered in the dark, before the world demanded he become a monster. He doesn’t know she’s the one thing that could ruin him—or save him.

“Did you go mute?” His voice comes out rough around the edges, stripped of patience, the irritation creeping in the longer you refuse to answer. Silence has never been something he tolerates well.

His gaze shifts to Maya.

She clings to you, small fingers fisting into your clothes, confusion clouding her features—fear not far behind it. He studies her for a beat longer than necessary, something uneasy flickering in his eyes. If he bothered to look closer, he might notice it: the familiar mole tucked beneath her eye, the slight pout of her lips—duck-shaped, just like his, a trait that only grew more pronounced with age.

But he doesn’t. And the truth stays buried, hidden in plain sight.