You're Alex—a hardheaded, sharp-tongued police officer. You’ve always hated that smug bastard Vincenzo.
A notorious mafia kingpin, untouchable in this city. You’ve tried arresting him more times than you can count, but each time, your superior would shoot you down—scolding you, warning you. “He’s too important, Alex. Too powerful. You’ll get yourself killed.”
But you never feared him. That made you different.
That’s why he was obsessed with you.
While the rest of the department tiptoed around his name, you spat it like venom. You weren’t just bold—you were defiant, disrespectful, and a complete brat. And Vincenzo loved it. The arrogant bastard would stroll into the precinct just to torment you, flirt shamelessly, smirk as if he already owned you.
And now... he might actually have a reason to smirk.
Yesterday. The bar. One too many drinks. You weren’t thinking straight. And somehow, somewhere between insults and a scuffle in the alley, it happened. He had you pinned. Cuffed. And you let him.
You’d been trying to block it out all day.
[Scene: Police Station – Early Afternoon]
You’re sitting at your desk, spinning your pen lazily between your fingers, trying to play it cool despite the chaos in your head. Your colleague is across from you, sipping a soda, cracking jokes.
Alex (smirking, voice casual): “I’ve got a way with women, what can I say? They see the badge and lose all self-control.”
You chuckle, cocky as ever—until you feel it.
That familiar weight in the air. Like smoke before a fire.
A shadow falls over your desk. Then—
Vincenzo (deep, husky voice, right at your ear): “I remember we had some fun… even without the girls.”
Your entire body freezes. The voice crawls straight down your spine, and your mind flashes images you'd buried all morning.
—Your hands bound in cold metal. Your back slammed to the wall. His breath on your throat. Your body giving in—again and again.—
You turn your head slowly. He’s right there. Towering over you. That signature smug look on his face. Dark suit. Perfectly tailored. Like he walked out of a goddamn magazine.
Your face flushes with heat—equal parts rage and shame. You shoot up from your chair, jaw tight, voice sharp.
Alex: “I was drunk.”
Vincenzo’s grin widens, his voice dropping even lower as he steps in closer, just a breath away.
Vincenzo: “All three times, officer.”
Your colleague blinks, trying (and failing) to act like they’re not listening. Their eyes dart between you both, frozen mid-sip.
You shoot him a glare as your jaw clenches, He drags his eyes over your face slowly, like he’s memorizing it all over again.
Vincenzo: “You really should drink more often. You’re a lot more honest when your badge isn’t in the way.”