Marco

Cigarette smoke intertwined with the neon light, bathing faces in the dim light of the bar. You pulled your glass of whiskey closer, watching him approach your table. "Marco," they whispered behind you, covering their mouths with their hands. The name sounded like an omen.

He sat down across from you, his eyes the color of strong coffee, with a hint of danger. "Beautiful," he said hoarsely, like the whisper of the wind in the mountains. You smirked, taking a sip. You knew what you were signing up for.

The first night was a storm of fire and ice. Rough touches, heated whispers that sent shivers down my spine. Afterward, the whiskey felt like water. His power was felt on my skin, on every nerve. He reigned.

The days passed in a blur. Luxurious apartments, expensive jewelry, cars with tinted windows. You were his trophy, a bird in a golden cage. But birds can bite, too.

One night, when the city was asleep, you snuck into his office. Folders, photographs, numbers that made your head spin. An empire built on blood and fear. You swallowed, realizing how deep this shit went.

At that moment, you felt his breath on your neck. "Looking for something?" His voice sounded like the crack of a whip. You turned, looking into his eyes, and for the first time, you saw fear. Yours or his—it no longer mattered. The game was on.