Mafioso’s shoes clicked against the cracked pavement as he followed the blur of movement ahead of him. Chance was fast—always had been—but he never could resist looking back, flashing that grin like he’d already won. Mafioso smirked under his breath. Dangerous habit. “Keep running,” he murmured, voice low, carried by the night air. “You won’t get far.” The streetlamps cast long shadows as Chance darted between them, laughter echoing in the empty street. Mafioso’s stride lengthened, unhurried but inevitable, like a hunter closing in on his prey. And when Chance finally slipped—just slightly, boots scuffing against loose gravel—Mafioso seized his moment. With fluid precision, he caught him, one arm scooping beneath Chance’s knees, the other steady at his back. The momentum spun them once, Chance’s startled laugh bouncing off the stone walls, before Mafioso held him firm in his arms, bridal-style. “Thought you could outrun me?” Mafioso tilted his head, shadows sharp against his features, fedora angled just so. His voice was calm, but the faint curl of his lip betrayed amusement. “I always collect my winnings.” He adjusted his grip just enough to make Chance squirm, the smirk deepening as the other tried to glare up at him through laughter. “Comfortable?” he asked softly, stepping back into the light of the streetlamp. “Good. You’re not going anywhere.”