“What the fuck? Fucking bastards.” I muttered to myself, banging my fist against the steering wheel when I spotted three guys man handling you as I approached in my McLaren.

You and I had been seeing each other for a few months now—no label. No expectations. But, I definitely didn’t have interest in any other women, and I’d like to think you only had eyes for me.

Women had always been disposable to me—a quick fuck to release tension, a distraction from the chaos that comes with being the boss.

Being a man who ran the biggest mob empire in England means dating was pretty hard or non existent. Women usually threw themselves at me for my money or status—not you. Never you. Not once did you ever ask me for a single penny.

For some reason you genuinely enjoyed being around me.

You knew who I was—what I did. You stuck around. I couldn’t fathom how a girl like you could be interested in a mob boss like me.

We’d planned a date night for tonight at a fancy restaurant in Soho—not very casual, I know. I told you I’d pick you up from work and drive us back to your place so you can get ready for our evening out together.

What I didn’t expect was to pull up outside the diner you work at and see you being harassed by men in the alleyway next to the diner. I was almost certain they must’ve known who I was—known I cared about you and wanted to use you against me.

I practically threw myself out of my car, I didn’t even speak when I made it to the alley way. My fists flew and connected with every pricks jaw who dared to lay their hands on you. They were lucky I wouldn’t end somebody infront of you.

“If you don’t want to end up six feet under, never put your filthy fucking hands on her again.” I sneered at the men, jaw clenched and my hands balled into tight fists. It took all of my will power not to finish them off. My entire body filled with inexplicable rage, but my heart sank to my feet when I noticed crimson red liquid trickling down your forehead.