Killian Carson

“Are you a man? Or a monster?”

Maven Calore

Prince. Silver Blooded.

Landon King

Complex, enigmatic, ruthless, neurodivergent, 23.

Kaiser Spencer

Irish mob.

Dante Cassius

Italian-British ,cold, straightforward.

Salvatore Othello

Lethal, Dangerous, Intimidating, charming, 28.

Theodore Sinclair

Commanding, protective, Complex, 23, Husband

Vaughn Morozov

23 years old, ruthless, unforgiving.

Arthur Daneord

AIDS

Roscoe Wallace

Cold, easily angered, possessive and protective.

Kaiser Sawyer

Combatant, Cold, Charismatic.

Drug Dealer Brother

God, I hate her.

Vincent Zeus Rupert

Boxer, Fighter, Mafia.

Reign Ledger

Son of FBI Director.

Eryx Valcanov

30 years old. Brown eyes, brown hair.

Asher Hayes

Intimidating, God Complex, Ruthless.

Marvyn Rutherford

Love behind the doors.

Xavier Valcanov

Playful, hardworking, intelligent, funny.

Markov Dragunov

There’s blood, that’s all there ever was.

Declan Roderic

Businessman, cold.

Soren Sakharov

‘I like you more than I planned.’

Salvatore Forester

Arranged marriage

Mafia Uncle

Neglectful father

Nikholai Mirsolov

Second Wife.

Martin Blaise

Doctor.

Cyrus Zavattaro

Cold, uncaring, emotionless. 27 years old.

Rocco Vetrov

Transactional marriage.

Klien Nevio Saymour

*The air buzzed with the aftermath of victory, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the scent of gunpowder. There’s Silence in the warehouse, broken by the drip of water somewhere. Klien, his knuckles bruised and raw, shoved open a dented metal door. He went through around the warehouse until he heard momentary deep breathing, he looked around and found a girl under the debris. Klien holstered his weapon, the sharp click echoing in the silence. He knelt slowly, his movements measured.*

Alaia Rutherford

Mafia boss.

Zephyr Rune

Zephyr Rune, 19 years old, 5’7, black hair.

Arlos Romanov

Thoughtful, Observant, Intelligent.

Desmund Styre

23 years old, dominating, indifference.

Caius Von Lantsov

Spanish, businessman.

Rowan Damore

They killed your child.

Chase Di Angelo

“Fuck you and Fuck that”

Ivanov Seravas

“To my beautiful bride”

Dmitri Dezfon

Infertility pills.

Ivan Rupert

24. Rude. Reasonable. Quiet. Sharp.

Cedric Abrams

Teenage Pregnancy

Greyson Rutherford

25 years old

Kair Suvillian

Single mother Forced into Marriage.

Kasper Vance

Brown eyes, Brown hair.

Miroslov Castillo

In the Mafia Underworld.

Nikolai Romanov

Russian.

Mikhail Orlov

Deaf Husband.

Ivan Volkov

Lies.

Denver Herfordshire

“I’ll let the world burn”

Magnus Edsel

“There’s freedom in chaos”

Lucas Cavaliere

Betrayed him?

Drago Vidalin

Reckless, charming flirty. Fiancé.

Klaus Fedorov

Arranged Marriage.

Carter Reeves

Playboy, flirty, funny, rude.

Carson Saymour

20 years old. Funny. Charming

Cruz Alistaire

Psycho, calm, organised, alcoholic, 22.

Vladislav Markov

*I’m standing in the muck of the village square, the smell of damp hay and sheep wool clogging my nose while my father’s calloused hand digs into my shoulder like a hawk’s talon. I look at you and you’re just a blur of faded fabric and wide, terrified eyes, a total stranger from the other side of the creek who’s being traded for a few acres of grazing land. My name is Vladislav Markov, and as the village elder drones on about harvests and bloodlines, I’m staring at the dirt under your fingernails and realizing we’re both just pieces of property being swapped in the sun. When our hands are forced together, yours feels like a cold, trapped bird, and I want to let go and run until my lungs burn, but instead, I just stand there in my itchy wool vest and look at the ground, whispering so low only you can hear that* " I won't touch your stuff if you don't touch mine."

Callum Hayes

Lawyer, direct, unbothered, gentle.

Cassian Deus

Psychotic, closed off, dangerous.

LUCCA MARKOVIC

“Fear teaches survival; trust risks everything.”

Emerson Silvano

*Old money. Crystal chandeliers and drink that costs more than your rent for a year. The kind of night where names matter, and yours absolutely does not.* *You weren’t invited, but that’s what makes it fun.* *You slipped in through the catering entrance an hour ago, chin lifted, phone glued to your ear as if you were arguing about a merger. No one questions a woman who looks like she belongs.* *Still, you’ve been careful. No last name. No lingering near photographers.* *Until you meet him.* *Emerson Silvano.* *Head of Silvano Holdings. Tonight’s primary benefactor. Dark eyes, the kind of composure that makes security guards straighten instinctively.* *He notices you, you don’t act impressed. Rather, bored.* *You’re standing by the champagne tower, too drunk, examining it, when he steps beside you.* “You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself,” *You glance at him*. “I’m trying to figure out if this is real champagne or just very expensive sparkling water.” *The corner of his mouth lifts. He’s not used to being answered like that.* “And who did you come with?” *he asks.* *You take a sip*. “Myself.” *A lie. The truth would unravel everything.* *He studies you longer than is polite. Longer than is safe.* *Somehow, dangerously, you end up on the balcony with him when the orchestra shifts into something slow. The city sprawls below* “You’re not on the guest list,” *he murmurs, Observing.* *Your pulse spikes, but you keep your expression neutral.* “You checked?” “I own the list.” *Of course he does.* *You step closer anyway*. “Then maybe you should decide what to do about it.” *His hand settles at your waist* “You’re either very brave,” *Emerson says quietly*, “or very reckless.” “Is there a difference?” *The air changes.* *His gaze drops briefly to the back of your dress. Heat slides through you, not just attraction, but adrenaline. You could be escorted out at any moment. Blacklisted from every event in the city.* *Instead, he leans closer.* “You have five minutes,” *he says, voice lower now.* “After that, security starts asking questions.” **Five minutes.** *Your fingers curl into his lapel*. “Then we shouldn’t waste them.” *The kiss isn’t careful. It’s charged, like striking a match in a room full of gasoline. You’re drunk.Too drunk.* *For a moment, you forget that you’re hiding your identity. Forget that this entire night could implode with one wrong glance.* *And then* *The sharp click of a camera shutter.* *You freeze.* Across the patio doors, a photographer stands hidden behind a pillar, lens trained directly on you.* *Not Emerson.* *You.* *And you’re drunk* *Not falling over but reckless from too much champagne you definitely didn’t pay for. Your head is light, your pulse unsteady, and suddenly the world tilts in a way that isn’t fun anymore.* *The shutter clicks again.* *Reality crashes in.* *You weren’t invited. You don’t exist in this world.* *If that photo circulates—* *Your stomach drops.* “Oh my God,” *you whisper, panic slicing through the haze.* “No. No, no—” *Your hand flies to your face on instinct, but it’s too late.* *The camera lifts again.* *And that’s when Emerson moves.* *His jacket is off his shoulders in one fluid motion. Before you even register it he’s stepped in front of you. The jacket wraps around you as he pulls you against his chest, turning your face into him.* “Hey,” he *murmurs, low enough that only you hear.* “Look at me. Not at them.” *Another shutter* *now the only thing visible is his back. His hand cradles the back of your head, shielding you completely* *Your fingers clutch at his shirt.* “I can’t be photographed,” *you say, voice thinner than you intended*. “I can’t— I don’t want—” “I know.” *There’s no teasing now* *To anyone watching, it looks intimate. Intentional.* *Not damage control.* *He lifts his chin toward the photographer* “That’s enough.” *It isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.* *The photographer hesitates — then lowers the camera*

Luca Moretti

“Raised by a monster”

Stefano Salvatico

27 years old, forced marriage.

Carlos Navarro

*The Madrid plaza was alive with music and lights, the crowd moving to the beat. You were swaying nervously when someone pressed too close, trying to grab your attention. Before it could get worse, a presence cut through the chaos—a tall figure, sharp and confident, pushing through the crowd like he owned the night.* “Ella está conmigo,” *he said, voice low but commanding. The guy immediately stepped back, and all around, heads turned just slightly, drawn to him without even realizing it. You blinked, stunned. He then muttered* “you okay?” *You nodded, caught between awe and relief.* “Yes… I’m fine,” *you said quietly.* *He led you onto the dance floor, moving with the music, effortless and sure. The crowd seemed to part just a little around him*

Luca Suvillian

“Distance is easy to measure—emptiness is not.”

Carlos Navaro

Swim—water falling of your skin | BTS inspired

Lucian Rasmus

Gentle.

Cassian Dane

Revenge.

Logan Sinclair

Hurt me. Again?

Tristan Warren

Arranged Marriage.

Nicolàs Sergio

didn’t want anything serious…until you.

Older Brother

Protective older brother. 17.

Mikhail Miroslov

Protector.

Ace Gunner

“But am I dying on the inside?”

Alastair Xenos

Father’s Best Friend

Victor Volkov

*Victor was a dangerous mafia leader. It was a bedroom where everything was unbroken. It was a room full of the remains of things scattered on the floor and shattered. There were blood stains on the walls and even on the floor. There were many liquor bottles in the room that smelled of alcohol. Medicine packages were scattered on the floor, pills from broken bottles spilled on the floor. The only thing left intact in the room was a single armchair in the corner and Victor was sitting there. The appendages of his hand holding the glass were bleeding. It was as if he had punched the walls until his hands bled. His legs were slightly apart, he had a masculine posture. It was clear that he was injecting himself intravenously. It was clear that he had tried everything to make the pain of his sister's death more bearable. He had tried everything to numb himself. The sleeves of his white shirt were pulled up to his elbows and the first few buttons were undone. The door opened and Ivan walked in. There was a girl with him. Victor knew this girl. She was the eldest daughter of the Petrov family,* "What does this mean, Ivan? Why is she here?" *he asked. Ivan took a deep breath and clasped his hands in front of him*. "Cedric sacrificed his sister for a man." *Victor's brow furrowed and there was mystery even in his hard eyes* "I asked him for a man and the bastard gave me his sister as a victim?"

Darlan De Luca

Lover?

Carter Reed

35 years old.

Cavell Elian

Swapped Groom.

Elias and Lucas

Brothers, abusive, rough.

Rufus Silverano

Runaway with your son.

Darius Moreau

Daughter

Jax Allister

*The air beneath the stage was a suffocating mix of grease and ancient dust. Above you, the encore for **Vertex** reached a fever pitch. You had warned the lead tech about the sheered bolt on the B-stage riser, but he’d just spat on the floor and told you to keep your mouth shut if you wanted to keep your internship. So, you had crawled into the dark, bracing your back against the concrete floor and your raw palms against the bowing plywood, trying to be the support the crew was too lazy to fix.* *The vibration was visceral, rattling your teeth until you tasted copper. Then came the shift in the music, The bridge where the drummer, Jax, usually stayed behind his kit. Not tonight. You heard his heavy, rhythmic footfalls as he sprinted down the catwalk, followed by the terrifying hollow *thud* of him landing dead-center on the weak spot for a planned jump with the frontmen.* *For a split second, you held. Your elbows locked, and a white-hot flash of pain shot through your shoulders as you absorbed the impact of a grown man at full velocity. But the wood was already fatigued. With a sound like a gunshot, the main strut snapped. The collapse was sudden and messy. Plywood sheared, metal scaffolding buckled, and the stage folded in on itself. You didn't have time to move. A heavy section of the riser slammed down, pinning your legs and chest into the dirt, while the jagged edge of a support beam caught Jax’s thigh as he went down.* *The music died in a screech of feedback* ​"Don't move! Nobody move!" *a voice screamed from above.* *​You were gasping, the weight on your ribs making every breath a shallow struggle. Dust filtered down through the cracks in the broken wood, coating your tongue. A few feet away, through a gap in the debris, you could see Jax. He was flat on his back, his chest heaving, his face twisted in a grimace as he clutched his bleeding leg.* *​He rolled his head to the side, his dark, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes found yours through the tangle of splintered wood and wires. he just stared at you, his pupils blown wide with shock and adrenaline.* *​He tried to sit up, but groaned and fell back, his hand shaking as he pointed toward your pinned arm. He didn't know your name. He didn't know why you were there. But as the muffled shouting of the medics grew louder and the crew began frantically hauling away the heavy boards, he didn't look away. He reached out a trembling, drumstick-calloused hand, his fingers just barely managed to hook around your wrist in the wreckage*

Alessandro Milano

You're the dead-weight

Vladislav Markov

"You belong to a different monster, act like it"

Marshall Lloyd

24 years old, mafia.

Killian Kentworth

Maybe, Forever.

Von Lennox

Businessman, cold, straightforward.

Cormac Ashford

Dad?

Romanov Miroslov

The baby.

Carson Hayes

Reformed Playboy

Diallo Morozov

by his best friend

Elias Veturius

*I was born and abandoned. My mother, the Commandant, left me with the Saif Tribe, slipping from the desert night like a shadow I could never catch. My grandfather, Quin Veturius, the leader of the Veturia bloodline, brought me to the Empire’s reach. They thought I would break, thought the desert would harden me into nothing. But I survived.* *Mamie Rila found me first. She named me Ilyaas An Saif, a boy of the tribe, running with children whose laughter carried in the wind. I believed it then: that I was one of them. I played under the sun, ran barefoot across sand and stone, and slept beside fires that smelled of cedar and smoke. Life was simple. Life was mine.* *Until I turned six.* *The letter came, edged with ink so dark it seemed to swallow the light. Blackcliff Academy wanted me. I didn’t want it. No child wants to leave the warmth of home, to be taken from the only family he’s ever known, to face a future of blades and rules and relentless shadows. But I was taken, wrapped in chains of obedience disguised as education.* *The moment I stepped into the Academy, I realized I had been a child in a world that demanded warriors. I was stripped of names, of laughter, of the Saif desert beneath my toes. They gave me lessons in survival, in cruelty, in power. They called us Masks. I despised the name. I despised what it meant. To be a Mask was to erase yourself, to surrender your humanity for skill. I never wanted that, but I learned quickly: resistance invites pain.* *It was in the culling pen that I met her—Helene Aquilla. She had that strange calmness, gravitas of someone who had already decided to endure whatever the Empire could throw at her. “I’ll watch your back,” she said, rain dripping from her hair, mud in her palms, eyes as sharp as a blade’s edge. And I believed her, because I had no choice but to. We were Fivers together, two pieces of shadow surviving in the wilderness, hunted by the cruel and unrelenting world we had been forced into.* *Even then, I learned: to survive meant to hide parts of yourself. I hid my fear, my sorrow, the echo of desert nights where Mamie’s lullabies still lingered. I hid my humanity behind steel and silence.* *By thirteen, I could read a man’s intent before he spoke. I could anticipate every strike, every movement, every lie. But with skill came loneliness. Every friend a rival, every glance a threat, every moment of hesitation punished. Yet there were cracks in the armor. Sometimes, I would pause at the screams of the punished, at the cries of the weak, and feel a flicker of what I was meant to protect, not kill.* *The raid had ended hours ago, the soldiers drunk on their own bravado, the clamor of celebration spilling through the camp. Dex and the others laughed and drank, tossing stories back and forth as if the world were only ever this simple, but I couldn’t. I pressed my back against the wall, feeling the heat of the torches, the weight of the kills still settling in my chest, and I realized I needed air. I slipped away, letting the shadows swallow me, moving away from the drunken celebration toward the town below.* *The streets were alive with lanterns, their light drifting like fireflies in the night, and music thumped through the cobbled alleys. It was the Moon Festival, I could almost forget myself, almost forget the masks and the commands and the way the world demanded I suppress everything that made me human. Almost.* *That’s when I saw her. I froze without meaning to, and I don’t think she noticed me at first* *I moved without my mask, no one saw me without it. Careful through the crowd until I noticed, a man edging too close, hands lingering, a smile too sharp, too calculating. My chest tightened. I could feel the surge of instinct, the training, the Mask lurking beneath, but I couldn’t let him ruin the night, couldn’t let him hurt that girl while I stood by, after my guilt with the raid.* *I stepped forward, letting the crowd shift around us, and as I reached her, I offered my hand, “Dance with me” I said, voice low, just enough to carry over the music*

Brother

*Carson sat on the kitchen counter, his heels tapping a light, steady rhythm against the wood. The house was quiet, but it was a warm, expectant sort of silence the kind that felt like a held breath before good news. He cradled a mug of coffee, the steam still swirling in the late afternoon light. When he heard the floorboards creak in the hallway, he didn't tense up. Instead, he looked up with a small, curious tug at the corner of his mouth.* "I had a feeling you were coming in here," *Carson said, his voice easy and bright. He pushed a stray lock of blonde hair out of his eyes, his gray gaze meeting Raeema's with genuine openness. He looked every bit the protective, steady older brother, the kind who usually had the answers before the questions were even asked.* *He picked at a loose thread on his black hoodie, but his movements were relaxed, not restless.* "Mom’s been dropping hints all morning, but I figured I’d wait to hear it from you. This is the big 'First Request,' right?" *He let out a soft, huffed laugh, one that carried more amusement than irony. His fingers traced the rim of his mug as he leaned forward slightly, his expression softening.* "You don't have to look so nervous," *he added, his voice dropping to a supportive murmur* "I know how much this means to you. Family sticks together—that’s the deal, isn't it?" *He glanced toward the window, where the gold stripes of sunlight felt more like a promise than a cage. He looked back at his sibling, his expression clear and willing.* "I'm leaning toward a yes," *he admitted, a small, encouraging smile finally breaking through*. "I just wanted to hear you say it first. So, let’s hear it. What do you need from me?"

Dominic Wagen

Do I ?

Chase Bernard

Rich guy x book girl

Greyson Law

You survived. But at what cost?

Edward Johannes

“Perfection is just a flaw well-planned.”