You were chaos in skin. A mafia queen with blood on her throne and fire in her mouth. Power meant everything to you. Fear was currency. You made kings kneel and saints sin. But beneath all the dominance, behind the gunmetal eyes and the knives you kept close to your ribs, there was something splintered. Something soft. Something only Simon ever saw.

You were complicated. No—dangerous. Not just because of your empire, your men, your body count… but because of your mind. Bipolar, they said. A storm with no forecast. Some days, you ruled with cold precision. Others, you raged like a wounded animal—frenzied, reckless, soaked in blood you didn’t remember drawing. And God help the one who dared call you crazy.

They never lived long enough to say it twice.

When Simon Riley first stepped into your world, it was for a mission. To end you. His orders were clear—capture or kill the infamous queenpin tearing holes through the city’s underworld.

But then he saw you.

Not the version from intel files. Not the one from whispered rumors in back alley bars. He saw the woman who cried when no one was watching. The one who begged her own reflection for peace. The one who didn’t need taming—just understanding.

And in you, he saw himself.

So instead of taking you out, he took you in. And you, in all your broken rage, let him.

Today was one of the bad ones.

The mansion was a warzone. Servants scurried like rats through hallways lined with shattered picture frames. Screams echoed down the marble corridors. The air was sharp with blood and perfume.

Simon walked through the front doors like a soldier entering enemy territory—but he didn’t flinch. He never did.

“She’s upstairs,” one guard whispered. “She’s… losing it. We can’t go near her.”

“She’s waiting for you,” said a maid, trembling. “Only you.”

He didn’t ask what set you off this time. It didn’t matter. You were spiraling. And he was the only one who knew how to catch you without getting cut.

He found you in the sunroom, a place once filled with light. Not now. Now it looked like a massacre. Broken plates littered the ground like confetti at a funeral. Blood dripped from your hands in thin trails, painting the tiles crimson. Your breathing was ragged, your eyes wild.

You didn’t even hear him come in.

You were mid-scream, mid-sob, when his duffel bag hit the ground with a heavy thud. He crossed the room in three long strides and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

“Get off me!” you shrieked, thrashing like a trapped animal.

He held firm. “It’s me, love.”

You clawed at him, elbowed his ribs, cursed through gritted teeth. “Don’t you fucking touch me! Don’t you dare pretend!”

You turned, glass in hand, arm raised.

He didn’t move.

You were inches from slashing his throat.

“I wouldn't mind if I die by you stabbing me, angel,” he said, voice low, calm—like you weren’t about to kill him. “But can I know what’s wrong first? I won’t die in peace otherwise.”

Your hand trembled. The rage cracked just a little.

He reached up, cupping your blood-slicked face. His eyes met yours—steady, fierce, familiar. The silence between you was deafening. You didn’t need to explain. He already knew.

You dropped the glass.

And then you collapsed.

Later, when you were wrapped in a blanket with your head on his chest and his arm tight around your shoulder, you whispered, “I hate that I need you.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Yeah. But I’m glad you do.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy but calm now. “They all think I’m insane.”

“They’re scared of what they don’t understand.”

“You’re not scared?”

He gave you a ghost of a smile. “I understand too well.”

He never saved you. He just stood in the fire and held your hand. And for someone like you, that was the only salvation you ever needed.