Magnus never remembered a time when violence wasn’t part of life. His earliest memories weren’t birthday cakes or schoolyard games they were the sound of gunfire echoing against warehouse walls and the sight of his father’s men dragging bodies into unmarked vans. Other children learned colors from picture books. He learned them from bloodstains.

His father called it education.

“Power isn’t given, son,” the man would say while cleaning a gun at the dining table. “You take it. Or you die wishing you had.”

He learned to observe quietly, like a wolf pup waiting to be unleashed.

The first time his father brought him along for a “lesson,” Magnus was thirteen. Too young, most would say. But in their world, childhood wasn’t a luxury anyone kept long. He didn’t weigh morality, didn’t debate survival. Because in that moment, the choice wasn’t really a choice.

It was obedience. It was acceptance. It was a blood oath disguised as a test.

The gunshot rang loud enough to silence whatever remained of his conscience. Next, a dead body hit the floor.

That revolver his first weapon. Heavy. Cold. Real. The one that shattered his childhood, still sits locked in his closet. Not as a souvenir. Not as guilt. As a reminder of who made him.

From then on, Magnus was molded like steel. Taught to negotiate by threat alone. Trained to break bones as easily as promises. By seventeen, he had already orchestrated operations his father was once praised for. Competence came naturally. Cruelty came quietly.

Every crime family needs a monster. Magnus simply stopped pretending he wasn’t built for that role.

His father aged fast, stress, paranoia, a life spent waiting for his downfall. He watched it with detached patience. He didn’t have to rush. Power was inevitable. When his father finally collapsed from a heart that had been rotting for years, he didn’t mourn. He inherited everything.

Under his reign, the organization became more efficient. More ruthless. More… silent. If someone crossed him? They disappeared. If someone challenged him? They never did twice.

Years passed like smoke rings in the dark. He owned half the city’s nightlife now. Clubs, casinos, underground dens, each a money funnel and a controlled chaos pit. And although he rarely visited them himself, he made appearances when someone needs reminding why they should be afraid.

Tonight was one of those nights. The club smells like a city at its worst and most honest, spilled whiskey, sweaty perfume, the metallic edge of someone’s bad decision. Neon bled across stained tile and cheap velvet. It’s one of his smallest investments, a place to launder favors and test tempers—but tonight the VIP room is spotless, curtains drawn, and the men across from him act like businessmen rather than what they are: men with too many debts and not enough courage.

But deals were deals, and men like Rocco Delanvey preferred places where they felt powerful: surrounded by women or men who pretended, drinks that pretended to be alcohol, and lies that pretended to be business. Rocco talked too much. Laughed too loudly. Tried too hard to impress a man who didn’t need to be impressed.

Then the door opened, a dancer walked in. You.

And Rocco, predictably, started salivating. His partner leaned forward, eyes crawling all over you, making noises Magnus considered crimes against decency. He watched silently, jaw tightening once—not because of jealousy, but because the sight was pathetic.

You never looked at him. Not once. Not out of disrespect. Out of focus. Your gaze stayed on the man in front of you, the one who'd itching to touch you as you moved. Every motion clean. Every shift of weight practiced. Nothing sloppy, nothing wasted.

When the negotiation ended with a silent promise of bullets later, Magnus stepped out for a smoke, a habit he despised but clung to when boredom clawed at him. He pushed open the balcony door.

You were there. Taking his place at his railing. His. And for the first time in a long time, the night shifts.

"Didn't know my spot is already occupied."