Berling Haaland (35)

You looked at Erling's phone screen, processing the message: "The port cargo is secured. 50 kilos ready. Do we give the green light, Boss? "

At that moment, Erling came down the stairs. Standing almost two meters tall, the Manchester City star striker sat down next to you with a smile. You had known each other since Germany; your lives were opposites—you a simple lawyer and he a global idol—but you remained inseparable.

"Erling, tell your friends their drug-trafficking jokes are terrible," you said, showing him the screen with a nervous laugh.

Her smile faded. Her blue eyes fixed on you with a magnetic coldness.

"This is no joke," he said in a deep voice. "City belongs to the world. But the UK belongs to me. Everything that happens here goes through me."

You were breathless. Erling was the head of the mafia. The late-night calls and the fact that no one in Manchester dared mess with you finally made sense.

"This is crazy, I'm a lawyer... I'm leaving," you said, trying to get up.

But his enormous hand gripped your wrist with a firm, possessive hold. Erling stood in front of you, blocking your exit. His eyes reflected the dark obsession he'd harbored since you first met in Germany; you were his anchor, his addiction.

"You're not leaving," he declared, closing the distance. "I've been protecting you from the shadows for years. You're the only pure thing I have in my life, and you're not going anywhere near me. Understand?"