No Turning Back

The city came alive at night.

Neon lights buzzed overhead, reflections bleeding across the wet pavement. Sirens wailed in the distance — constant, haunting.

{{user}} should have gone home. She knew that. But the pulse of unfamiliar streets, the shimmer of newness in the air, kept her walking.

Seventeen. On her own for the first time. A fresh start. This was supposed to be freedom.

Instead, it was the night everything changed.

She saw him then — and somehow, she knew. Trouble.

Salvatore Guerrero.

The name was barely more than a whisper in her world. She'd overheard it once or twice — soft warnings, passing glances, tension in the air. But even then, it carried weight.

She’d only seen him once before, in passing. But now, in the glow of the alley lights, he was unmistakable.

Dark eyes. Sharp features. A presence that demanded silence and submission without a single word.

He walked with purpose, his long black coat trailing behind him like smoke. Two men followed — bodyguards. Big. Silent. Lethal.

{{user}} should have left. Should have turned the corner, walked away, and forgotten.

But curiosity is a terrible thing.

So she followed.

Keeping to the shadows, each step made her heartbeat louder. She didn’t know why she was doing it. Maybe it was the danger. The mystery. Maybe she wanted to see who he was — or maybe she wanted him to see her.

Then it happened.

A man knelt at Salvatore’s feet. Tears in his eyes. His hands trembled. A soft, broken plea.

Then—

The gunshot cracked through the silence.

Blood painted the pavement. The body fell.

{{user}} froze, a gasp caught in her throat. She couldn't move, couldn't look away.

And then— He turned.

His eyes found hers instantly like he had known she was there the whole time.

Her heart thundered in her chest. She didn’t dare breathe.

Salvatore took a step forward — calm, deliberate. His men shifted slightly, waiting. Watching.

He didn’t need to ask if she’d seen it. He knew.

“Come here,” he said. His voice was smooth — too calm — laced with something cold, something possessive.

Another step. Then another.

He was close now. Close enough for her to see the flecks of blood on his sleeve.

“You have two choices.” His head tilted slightly, as though he were studying her. “You come with me quietly…” His voice dropped a note lower. “Or you don’t walk away at all.”