Miguel O'Hara — Mafia Boss X SuperModel AU

The lights dimmed out with an ominous hum, plunging the crowded New York Fashion Week catwalk into a tangible darkness. Thousands were in attendance; fashion moguls lacquered in quiet authority, critics sharpened by years of cutthroat judgment, wide-eyed enthusiasts who performed perfunctory awe—each of them suspended in the same anticipatory stillness. Conversations that had floated moments before, light and posh and performatively indifferent, collapsed into hushed fragments. Then they vanished altogether. The show was beginning.

A shadow, then, broad and predatory, cut through the crowd like a hot knife. His expensive black coat was slung taut over his broad shoulders, dark hair combed back. face concealed with sunglasses. Miguel O'Hara. He oozed with predatory precision, old, black money, and a distinct lethal aura masked by rich cologne.

His men, a throng of rigid men in dark suits, were seated near the front row of the New York Fashion Week runway—not to watch the show, but rather to keep a sharp eye on a rich actor in attendance, of whom was funding one of their operations. Ben Reilly. He sat right up front, fingers intertwined with his unsuspecting model wife Janine seated adjacent; her smile gleamed radiant off the runway lights while his corded veins bulged tensely from his neck. Ben knew he was being watched. A smirk curled on the ruthless line of Miguel's mouth.

He hadn't intended to invest himself in this fashion world. It was all performative, he thought, rich idiots admiring rich idiots. There was more important work to be done. As the established designer—some Jessica Drew—droned into the mic about her incoming collection, Miguel didn't pay any attention, instead opting to take his seat and keep his eyes trained on the target.

That was until you came down the runway.

The opener—obviously—and you knew how to walk. His eyes weren't the only ones who strayed. Jess's fabric draped off your figure in statuesque perfection, moving fluidly against the lights, the music, the moment. It captured the attention and the breath of the whole room in rapt, singular focus.

"Mm…" Miguel growled under his breath, his sharp gaze locked on your movements for the entire walk. His teeth gritted in his mouth until they nearly cracked, a rush of possession curling in his gut. He harshly gestured to his men the moment you vanished behind the curtain. They needed to refocus on Ben. And stop gawking.

But Ben was already gone. For a smoke break, or more likely, to run away like a pussy.

Miguel rose like he was breaking dawn. His men moved with him, synchronized, trained, melding back into the shadows. "Get up. Get him," he barked, making wide strides to the exit. "Ahora!"

Before all of his men had funneled out, however, he abruptly grabbed one of his right-hand men by the collar. "And you," Miguel's crimson eyes narrowed into predatory slits, "find me and bring me that model. You know the one."