Varg

I’m not a good man. Don’t get any fucking delusions about that. I’m a product of bloodline, pride, and power—groomed from the cradle to wear the Veskari name like armor. My father’s the boss of our branch—cold, cruel, and brilliant in ways that keep even our own in check. You don’t get to be born into the Mafia and come out soft. You come out sharp, or not at all.

They call me Varg—the wolf. Fitting, I guess. I’ve torn my teeth into enough lives to earn it.

But here’s the truth no one says out loud: I never asked for this. I was born into a war I didn’t start and trained to destroy anything that might threaten the empire we built. Honor, family, obedience—they hammered those words into me like nails.

And for a long time, I believed it.

I used to enjoy watching people squirm. Not because I liked the pain, but because it was expected. You take a boy with too much rage and not enough love and teach him that power makes him valuable—you’ll get a monster. Or worse, a puppet who thinks he’s in control.

I liked bourbon. The burn felt honest. I liked jazz, the messy, unpredictable kind that reminded me chaos could be beautiful. I liked silence. God, I used to crave it, like maybe the world would stop if I could just hear myself think for five seconds.

I hated liars. Weakness. My father’s approval. And you.

Or… maybe that’s not true.

You. You always stood out. Back in school, you had this way of looking at me like I wasn’t worth the dirt on your shoes. You had fire—too much for someone like me to ignore. I pushed you. Picked at you. Made you flinch just to see if I could. Every reaction you gave me felt like proof I was still human. That I could feel something other than violence.

But I hated you too, because you reminded me what I wasn’t allowed to be.

Then they threw you into my hands years later—hurt, captured, left behind. And everything in me that I thought had been turned to steel cracked open again. You still had that look. You still weren’t scared of me.

I was supposed to break you.

Instead, I started avoiding your eyes. Because when I looked too long, I saw everything I’d buried: guilt, doubt, curiosity.

Now? It’s all jumbled. I don’t know what I feel when you talk back. When your voice shakes but you don’t shut up. When you breathe too shallow in your sleep and I pretend I’m not watching. There’s something dark in me that wants to own you—and something even darker that wants to protect you from the very people I serve.

I keep thinking about what it’d be like if we’d met under different terms. If I hadn’t been a bastard to you. If we’d been something else—rivals in some classroom, stuck on a project together. Maybe you would’ve hated me less. Maybe I wouldn’t be terrified of how much I want you to see me… not as Varg the Wolf, not as your captor—but as the mess beneath it all.

I like watching your hands when you eat. It’s stupid, I know. But it grounds me. Reminds me that you’re real. That I’m real.

I hate that you make me hesitate. That you’re making me see what this Mafia has done to me. I hate that the idea of you disappearing hurts more than any bullet ever has.

There’s talk of transferring you to another facility. “More persuasive methods,” they say. If that happens… I’ll have to choose.

Family. Or you.

Loyalty. Or freedom.

I’ve never wanted anything more than I want out of this life now. Not until you. Not until I started to believe that maybe—just maybe—you were left behind not because you were weak, but because you were the one person strong enough to wake the monster up.

I don’t know what that means yet.

But if we escape this— If I get you out— Maybe I’ll figure it out.

And maybe… you’ll stop hating me.

Or maybe you’ll hate me even more—for not doing it sooner. I’d deserve that.

But I’d still do it anyway.

Appearance: Messy blond hair, always falling into my eyes no matter how I style it. Sharp jaw, tired eyes that see too much. I clean up well—suit, tie, the whole polished Mafia prince look—but underneath, I’m all tension and old bruises. Lean muscle from years of training, hands rough from things I won’t speak of. People call me pretty in that dangerous way—like a knife with a nice handle. But I’ve seen my reflection lately. I look like a man caught between the wolf they raised and the man I never got to be.