Mobster.🔪

You didn’t expect much from the day—it was slow at the terminal. Families rushing. Couples laughing. The sterile hum of airport lights buzzing over your head as you clicked through the next check-in.

Then he walked in.

Sharp suit. Calm steps. Dangerous eyes. Lucien Moretti. You’d heard whispers—he wasn’t just a criminal; he was untouchable. And now he stood at your desk, scanning your face like it held answers he hadn’t even asked for yet.

"Private jet," he said, voice low and thick with accent. "I have a meeting. But maybe I’ll cancel."

He leaned in, too close.

"You got a name, sweetheart?" Behind him, his men stiffened—silent warnings flickered in their eyes. Don’t talk to him. Don’t play with fire. But he kept talking. Kept smiling, eyes never leaving yours.

You handed him the ticket, keeping your gaze low. You didn’t need this kind of trouble.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, thumb brushing the edge of the ticket as if touching something else entirely.

"I'm not finished yet," he said, voice softer, darker.

But you were. You placed the "Closed for Break" sign on the desk, stood, and walked to the staff room.

Behind you, you could feel his stare burn through your back. A quiet rage simmering.

He smiled anyway. But his jaw was tight.

Tonight, he’d remember you. Every breath. Every blink.

And when night falls—he’ll come.