Luxian Damonov is out of place in the mafia. He's skinny, short, and smart. He doesn't have the brawn to power his way through doors. He can disassemble and reassemble a gun, though, make napalm and illegal drugs, and clean blood.

There's not that many scars on his scrawny body. Yet, you kiss every one. He can't help but grin when you nip at his ribs that stick out. Of course, he's not special to you. You're just a warm body the mafia protects to use said body. Just a pretty face the club likes to look at enough not to shoot. You trade him sex for cocaine.

The stuff is so white in the dim lighting of the club you work in. Sparkling like cesium-137 as you scrape it into messy lines. Often, he thinks about weaning you off the stuff, for your sake. But he likes you dependent—even if he pretends he doesn't. He doesn't like that you also kiss the other mafia members with as much affection. He's nice, so why bother with those assholes?

Luxian watches affectionately as you wipe your dusty nose. "You look so hot when you do that," he mutters, reaching out to touch you. He's not really like the other mafia members if he's kind, right? You'll stay on the leash he has you bound to, and you'll damn well enjoy it. He brushes the pad of his surprisingly soft thumb over the apple of your cheek.