Lovestruck Mafia

You had never known what love meant.

Or family. Or warmth. Or the ticklish laughter that softened childhood like sweet honey dripping off fingertips.

Your childhood had been blank. Emotionless. A soulless rotation of days that felt more like surviving than living. Your parents never looked you in the eye—perhaps afraid of what they saw there. Your classmates avoided you, like your silence could snap necks.

And you never minded.

But high school? That was the first time you felt. Not love. Not friendship.

Hatred.

There were three girls.

Sierra. Anna. Faith.

Beautiful, poisonous snakes. The way they slithered around campus, with fake smiles and venom behind every giggle. Their game? You. The weird kid. The silent one. You never screamed when they stole your books, tripped you in hallways, put chewing gum in your hair.

But then came that one rainy Thursday. Locker corridor. No cameras. Sierra leaned in, too close. Anna locked the corridor doors. Faith pulled out her phone.

"Smile for the freak show."

Sierra’s hand grabbed your jaw, squeezing it hard. Too hard. You could taste blood. Then Anna slapped you—once, twice. Laughing.

And that’s when it broke.

You didn’t feel pain. You never had.

But this—this was electric. A rush. A snap inside your skull.

Your fist connected with Sierra’s jaw. You felt the bone give in. The squelch. She fell back, screaming.

Anna lunged. You caught her wrist, twisted. Slammed her head—once, twice—against the locker. You could still hear the dull clang of metal and the splat of her blood puddling beneath her skull.

And Faith? She tried to run. But you yanked her by her hair—pulled with all the strength that had been buried in your bones for years. You tore skin. Ripped scalp. She shrieked like a dying animal.

When the teachers found you, you were smiling. Drenched in red. Faith’s hair still in your fist.

That’s when you realized—you weren’t broken.

You were free.

---

The next years were a blur of darker shades.

You played with emotions. Twisted people around your finger. Manipulated. Lied. Gaslighted. Stalked.

Once, you tied a college professor to a bed, carving answers to your exam with a scalpel.

Once, you laughed as a man begged you to let his wife go. You made him watch instead.

You grew up twisted. Alone. Dangerous.

And then came him.

Just a stupid little thing. Pretty eyes. Kind smile. You dated him for fun. At first.

But your obsession bloomed fast. Sickening. You followed him. Watched him sleep through windows. Stole his toothbrush.

When he left a letter, a breakup letter—not even a proper goodbye—you snapped.

You needed him.

So tonight, you drank. And drank. Until the world spun and your body barely moved. You stumbled down alleys, muttering his name. Tears and rage and the taste of cheap rum staining your mouth.

Then you saw him.

A tall figure, alone under the industrial lamp beside the abandoned port warehouse. Wiping blood from his knuckles.

Dead bodies. Five or six. Their throats slashed. One man’s intestines spilling out.

But the way he stood—hair slightly slicked, broad back under a fitted vest—it reminded you of him. You thought he was your ex-boyfriend.

Your eyes widened.

You grinned.

You needed him back.

---

You don't know how you did it. Maybe he was distracted. Maybe your psychotic aura worked like magic.

You slammed something heavy against the back of his head. Or maybe it was a stun gun. You weren't sure anymore.

You dragged his large body into the trunk. Drove home like a lunatic.

Tied him to the old iron chair in your basement. Wrapped chains around his wrists. Ankles. Neck. Just to be sure.

Then you collapsed.

---

It was the sound of a growl that woke you.

"The fuck is this?!"

Your head throbbed. Your mouth tasted like ash and rum. But his voice? Gravel and smoke.

You blinked.

And saw him.

Not your ex.

This wasn’t some stupid boy.

This was a beast.

He was Lucien Arman Valtore .The Serpent of Solace

Lucien wasn't just any mafia boss. He was the kingpin.

The underworld trembled at the mere mention of his name. He had once fed an entire cartel family to their own drug dogs. Rumor said he slit a man's throat with a broken wine glass—and finished sipping the same wine.

He's dismantled international crime rings and built his own empire with iron, blood, and fire.

He smuggled art, weapons, human lives—and made the black market sing his name like gospel.

Cold. Brilliant. Dangerous.

And now, your prisoner.

---

Lucien was devastatingly gorgeous in the most unholy way.

Black hair tousled like he'd just risen from the ashes of hell. Sharp undercut bleeding into longer strands that fell rebelliously onto his forehead. A scar ran jagged across his left cheek—a kiss from violence, resting dangerously close to his full lips.

Lips that usually held a cigarette. Casual. Erotic. Like he didn’t care if he burned.

Eyes? Silver-blue. Not the kind that looked at you, but through you. Like dissecting your soul without touching it.

He wore a fitted charcoal vest over a black button-up, rolled to the elbows. His arms—veined, roped with muscle. You noticed dried blood over his knuckles. His tie hung loose, like he just came from murder and martinis.

Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. The kind of body sculpted in vengeance, not vanity.

He smelled like smoke, leather, and death.

Lucien Valtore wasn’t a man.

He was an executioner dressed like a god.

"Did you drug me?" he growled, rattling his chains.

He had never been touched once. Let alone kidnapped. But this infuriating little girl..