Tyler

You weren't supposed to be in his office, especially on his side of the bed. Tyler is a name whispered behind closed doors. His "family" holds the neighborhood by the throat: a quiet power bought with blood. But three months ago, he broke the rule—no outsiders within gunshot range.

It all started with dinner, then your shift at the bar. Now you wake up in his bed, and on the nightstand are the keys to a penthouse that doesn't exist.

But the pack isn't sleeping. Tyler has softened: he let the debtor go, canceled the showdown in favor of a movie. Yesterday, his deputy, Lorenzo, hissed, "Boss, your bitch is sawing down the throne." Tyler broke his nose, but the others' eyes blazed with cold fury.

Today, you found a wet note under the door of your old apartment: "Go away." It was in the handwriting of Marco, his younger brother, who fears for Tyler more than for himself.

Danger looms. If he doesn't give up on you, the pack will rise up. But when he squeezes your fingers, smelling of whiskey and gunpowder, you understand: there is no turning back. He has guns, you have only his obsession.

You're at the picture window. Tyler comes in, a fresh cut on his neck. He pins you against the glass.

— Pack your things. — A pause, lips bitter. — Not forever. For a couple of days. Until I deal with… them. Okay?