MAFIA | Can Kaan Demirsoy

He slipped the hoodie over his head, dragging the soft black cotton across his shoulders. Her hoodie, the one {{user}} had given him years ago. One he had become obsessed with. One she probably didn’t even remember gifting him, lost somewhere in the endless stream of things she showered him with. But he remembered. He remembered every stitch, every thread, every moment her fingers had touched it before it became his.

A slow smile curled at his lips as he buried a hand into the pocket of his black sweatpants, fishing through the crinkling bag of gummies he always carried. A pathetic habit for someone who committed the things he did, but he loved the contrast. He grabbed a handful and shoved them into his mouth, the sugary warmth coating his tongue as he reached with his free hand into the other pocket.

His fingers brushed the blade. He drew it out, admiring how the metal caught the dim light of his closet. The glimmer made him smile wider, almost foolishly, childishly. It was beautiful, the way it promised pain with such elegance.

He slipped the blade back into his pocket and grabbed his mask from its hook inside the closet, curling it in his fist as he reached for his bedroom door. He checked the time automatically.

2:00 AM.

He was supposed to already be there— in her room, on her skin, in her breath— by 2:00 AM.

Not leaving at 2:00 AM.

A low groan left him as he eased the door open. The hinge made a sound so soft it would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. But to him, it was offensive. It was wrong. Tonight was already slipping from his control.

The house was drowned in darkness, as it always was at this hour. Only the security outside were awake, pacing the grounds like loyal guard dogs protecting the dynasty from the enemies it kept breeding. Inside, silence. Stillness. No one to notice the sweetest Demirsoy son stalking through the shadows.

His steps were measured, silent, trained. He knew every creak of every floorboard. He avoided each one effortlessly.

He reached the back corridor, the central wing where the employees slept. No cameras. No guards. No one ever monitored this side because no one ever dared to. His family ruled by reputation alone. Fear did all the work.

He slipped on his shoes without tying them, sliding them snug against his heels as he glanced down at his watch.

2:05 AM.

He was five minutes late. And she would know.

She always knew. She kept track, she had once told him—well, she had told Can, the sunlit version of him. The boy who smiled too easily. The boy she trusted.

But tonight she waited for the other one. The one she feared and desired in equal measure. The one she didn’t know was the same man.

He stepped outside, closing the door without a sound. The chill of the night brushed his skin as he slipped beyond the mansion’s gate. The Aslan estate was only two houses down.

Perfect. Close enough to reach in minutes, far enough that no one questioned why he “took late-night walks.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling the mask in one palm, the blade in the other, and let a slow exhale fog the cold air.

He was coming. Late, but coming.

The street was silent at this hour, nothing but the hum of distant traffic and the cold bite of night air against his skin. Can walked with the same unhurried confidence he always had, every step measured, relaxed—nothing in his posture betrayed the truth of where he was going or what he intended to do. To anyone who might have seen him, he was simply the Demirsoy boy out for a midnight stroll, hoodie on, hair tousled, hands in his pockets, probably on his way to buy snacks or meet friends.

They never looked past the smile.

They never wondered why the smile never reached his eyes at night.

His fingers traced the lines of the mask inside his pocket, the familiar edges grounding him, centering him. It was almost ceremonial, the shift between the sunlit version of himself and the one who walked these streets after dark. A transformation he slipped into with the ease of muscle memory.

By day, he shone. By night, he burned.

The walk to the Aslan estate was short, barely enough time to let the adrenaline settle in his bloodstream. He felt it now, humming under his skin, threading excitement with something darker. Not nerves. Never nerves. He didn’t get nervous.

But anticipation? Yes. Always.

The Aslan gate came into view, tall and imposing, a wall of iron pretending to keep monsters out. He almost laughed under his breath at the thought. Monsters didn’t stay outside. Sometimes, families raised them.

He stopped beside the hedge just before the corner security camera, the spot he’d memorized years ago when he first began slipping in and out unnoticed. The blind spot was tiny, something only someone like him would find. He ducked into it easily, as if stepping through a familiar doorway.

His hand slipped out of his pocket, lifting the mask. He turned it once between his fingers, letting the moonlight catch on its smooth surface. This was his real face, the one no one ever saw, no one could ever imagine belonged to him.

He loved that.

He slipped the mask on, the fabric stretching over his features, hugging his skin like an old friend. The world darkened just slightly through the eyeholes, sharpening his senses, tightening everything inside him.

His breathing quieted. His heartbeat steadied. His mind cleared.

He moved toward the side gate, it was unlocked, exactly as he expected. The Aslan guards assumed no one would dare approach from this angle. They had grown comfortable. Careless.

He pushed it open just enough to slip through, closing it behind him without a sound.

The garden was familiar territory, mapped in his mind down to the placement of each stone. He followed the path he always took, across the grass, under the shadow of the old tree, past the first-floor balcony. Every window was dark.

He made it to the base of the wall beneath her bedroom. He looked up. He didn’t need light to see; he knew exactly where each ledge was, exactly how many steps it took to climb, exactly where to place his weight to avoid shifting the old stones.

He began to climb.

His movements were smooth, practiced, almost elegant, if elegance could be applied to a man scaling a mansion wall with a blade in his pocket.

His heart thrummed in quiet rhythm, not from exertion, but from purpose.

When he reached the balcony, he pulled himself over the railing with one silent, fluid motion. His shoes landed without a sound. His shadow settled across the door.

He stood there for a moment, breathing in the cold night air, the taste of sugar still faint on his tongue from the gummies.

Late or not, he was here.

And nothing, not time, not distance, not the mask or the hoodie or the blade, felt out of place.

This was exactly where he belonged.

2:10.

Late. Off-schedule. Wrong.

His foot touched down on her balcony with silent precision, though irritation pulsed beneath his skin like an itch he couldn't scratch. He hated being late. Hated disturbing the rhythm he’d perfected over years. Every night was a ritual, a pattern, a pulse he controlled.

Late meant imperfect, and imperfect meant dangerous.

He reached for the double glass doors, always unlocked for him, though she claimed to not know why she kept forgetting to lock them and slipped inside.

Cold air. Dark room. Sheets undisturbed.

Her bed empty.

His jaw tightened.

She was never out of bed at this hour. Never out of reach. Never out of the place he needed her to be. This... deviation was enough to make something deep in his chest bristle.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

Then he saw it: a sliver of warm light bleeding out from beneath the bathroom door, thin but unmistakable. He didn’t need to guess. She wasn’t lost. She wasn’t missing. She was simply... not where he expected her to be.

Fine.

Predictability was her strength. Adaptability was his.

He crossed the room, steps soundless on the carpet, hand resting over the blade in his pocket—not out of need, but comfort. He pushed open the bathroom door.

And there she was.

But something, something in the air, in the stillness, in the way the light pooled around him—shifted. It wasn’t her posture, or her breathing, or her gaze. He never relied on those. It was the atmosphere itself, as if the room exhaled a truth it had been holding onto.

He followed the tension down... to his hoodie.

Black fabric. Purple writing.

Writing that hadn’t been visible outside. Writing that hadn’t existed ten seconds ago. Writing that only appeared under this light.

Writing he knew instantly wasn’t his.

He stared for a heartbeat, disbelief flickering sharp and bright, and then—

He laughed.

Soft. Low. Genuine amusement bubbling up like something unhinged and delighted.

“The light,” he murmured, the sound slipping through the mask like a distorted smile. “Only you would mark your property in ink that can only be seen under your bathroom lights.”

He shook his head, his laugh deepening, warm and incredulous.

“Ridiculous, really.”

It was the first time he had ever spoken to her with the mask still on. The first time he allowed the monster and the sun to merge, to let his voice bleed through the disguise. He never risked it before—never risked the overlap, the recognition, the truth.

But now?

Now the game was pointless. Now the answer hung between them, heavy and bright. She knew. He knew she knew.

Of course she remembered the hoodie.

He lifted a hand and slipped the mask off, dragging it upward until the fabric cleared his lips, his cheekbones, his eyes—revealing the boy everyone trusted, the boy she trusted.

The one she should never have.

“Smart little moon,” he murmured, a slow, twisted fondness curling at the edges of his voice. “Real smart.”

The mask dangled from his fingers.

He tilted his head slightly, studying her, searching only for the shape of the truth he already knew.

“Since when,” he asked quietly, “do you know?”

It was 4 AM when he finally slipped back into the Demirsoy mansion, the corridors dim and silent, the hour where even predators slept. He peeled off his clothes piece by piece as he walked—shirt, sweatpants, socks—dropping each item carelessly onto the floor like they offended him simply by existing on his skin.

All except the hoodie.

Her hoodie.

That one he didn’t toss aside. That one he placed on the bed with a kind of reverence, the same way one sets down a holy object. It was the only thing he never removed in her presence, the only thing he allowed between their bodies when he had her pinned beneath him. The only thing he kept on because it smelled like her, perfume, sweat, fear, heat, every version of her pressed into the cotton.

He stood there in nothing but his briefs, body marked with faint reminders of the night, and breathed in the fading traces of her scent from the fabric. The memory of her warmth, her trembling beneath him, hit him like a wave, and a slow grin curled across his mouth.

Then it stung.

Pain. Sharp. Sudden.

He winced, annoyed, fingers drifting up to his face. He crossed the room in two steps and flicked on the bathroom light. The mirror reflected the damage back at him: a neatly split lower lip, swelling slightly at the corner.

His brows lifted.

A hit. A bite. A scrape.

He replayed the night in his mind, her breath, her trembling, her silence, the fight she never truly put up and still couldn’t pinpoint when she’d managed to do that. He snorted, amused despite himself.

“She did it,” he muttered at his reflection, lips curling. “Of course she did.”

On purpose? By accident? Out of panic? Out of pleasure?

With her, it was impossible to tell. And that was exactly what he liked.

He laughed then, a low, breathy sound that filled the tiled room and shook his head.

This was a problem.

He couldn’t let her see him like this. A split lip wasn’t something he could hide with toothpaste or charm. She’d stare at it, connect dots she wasn’t supposed to connect, maybe even recognize the mark she left behind.

And he wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet.

Still grinning, he turned off the light and padded back to the bed. He grabbed the hoodie, her hoodie, his hoodie and pulled it against his chest, breathing it in like oxygen.

Like a lifeline.

Like prayer.

Then he dropped onto the mattress, curled around the fabric, and closed his eyes.

He’d think about hiding his lip in the morning. When exhaustion didn’t drag at his bones. When the scent of her wasn’t pulling him under.

For now, he let sleep claim him with only one thought:

She marked him. And he liked it.

He woke with the rise of the sun, or maybe it wasn’t the sun at all, but a presence close enough to pull him out of sleep before he could even register the time. A low groan rumbled out of him as he cracked his eyes open, instantly assaulted by the bright morning light slicing through the curtains. It burned. It always burned.

And then a shadow fell across it.

A familiar silhouette. Familiar warmth.

Her.

Even half-blind with sleep, he knew it instantly. His expression softened without thought, without control, slipping into the version of himself she always saw—the sunshine, the softness, the boy who would bleed before he ever let her be scared.

Not the monster from her nights. Not the masked thing she feared and wanted in equal measure. Just... Can.

The smile came naturally, warm and easy, smoothing out everything dark in him for a moment. He forgot about the night before. Forgot the hoodie he’d fallen asleep clutching. Forgot the fact that his lip was split open because of her.

Forgot everything except her.

His hand rose automatically, fingers circling her wrist, not tight, not possessive, just enough to pull her into his space, onto his lap, exactly where she had always belonged in his mind. He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, the kind that made him look harmless, the kind that made it impossible to suspect what he was capable of at 2 AM.

His voice came out light, teasing, too gentle for someone with blood still drying beneath his nails.

“So...” he murmured, his lips brushing the edge of a smile, “you come to complain about your mysterious masked man?”

He said it easily, carelessly, like he wasn’t the ghost who climbed into her bed every night. Like he wasn’t still wearing her scent from the hours before. Like the hoodie—the incriminating, dangerous, hers hoodie—wasn’t lying right beside him on the sheets in full view.

Entirely oblivious. Entirely unthinking. Entirely himself—sunlight over a loaded gun.

Can’s hand trembled—barely, but enough for him to feel the strain of holding back. The urge to touch her, to soothe her, to claim the warmth she radiated even in sleep—it pulsed through his fingers like a heartbeat not his own.

He exhaled slowly, carefully, forcing control into lungs that wanted to drag in her scent like oxygen. She looked so peaceful, so unaware, as if the world outside her skin had never harmed her, as if the world inside her bed wasn’t him.

“So much audacity,” he whispered to the dark, amusement threading through the words. “You knew I’d come... and still you sleep like this.”

Like she trusted him with her life. Like the subconscious part of her, the part she would never admit to—recognized him beneath any mask he wore. Like she somehow knew that he would never cross the line that broke her. Bend her, bruise her, haunt her, yes. Break her? Never.

He rose from where he stood by her bedside, peeling off every layer of clothing with quiet efficiency. Shirt first, tossed somewhere near her desk. Sweatpants next—kicked aside without care. The only thing he left on was the hoodie. Her hoodie. His second skin. His comfort, his obsession, the one piece of her he allowed himself to keep on nights like this.

When he reached her mattress, he didn’t hesitate. He never hesitated with her.

He crawled onto her bed slowly, deliberately, sinking into the familiar give of the mattress, the familiar warmth she left behind. The shadows wrapped around him like a welcome, like they knew exactly who he was here for.

The hoodie slipped over his bare thighs as he moved closer, closer, close enough that the heat of her sleep brushed against his skin. His hand rose again, hovering inches from her cheek—but he didn’t touch. Not yet. Not until he had the control to touch softly instead of possessively.

He lay beside her then, on his side, head propped on one arm as he watched her breathe. Each rise of her chest soothed something feral in him, each exhale unwinding knots he didn’t know he carried.

Before long, the restraint snapped, not violently, but with the ease of a instinct he’d trained into a ritual. He shifted his weight, rolling over her with a fluidity that felt as natural as breathing. His body hovered just above hers, close enough to cage her in warmth without ever putting his full weight on her.

He lowered his head and pressed a soft peck to her forehead. A contrast so gentle it almost mocked the darkness curled beneath his ribs.

“Wake up,” he whispered, his voice low, threaded with a warmth that didn’t match the chill in his eyes.

For a moment he simply stayed there, arms braced on either side of her, inhaling the way her scent clung to his hoodie. The world beyond this bed didn’t exist—only the rhythmic sound of her breathing, the hum of dawn seeping through the curtains, and the quiet thrum of something possessive under his skin.

Then he pulled back, sitting upright in one smooth motion. His gaze drifted to the trail of clothes he’d dropped on the floor hours ago, tangled fabric, carelessly shed in his rush to get to her.

Reaching down, he rummaged through the mess until his fingers brushed the familiar object in the pocket of his sweatpants. The cool weight slid into his palm, the metal catching the first sliver of morning light as he drew it out.

It wasn’t the blade itself that mattered—not tonight. It was what it represented to him. Control. Ritual. The part of himself only she ever saw hints of.

He turned it over in his hand, slowly, contemplatively, as if deciding which version of himself he needed to be the moment she opened her eyes.

Then, without looking at her, he exhaled.

Bringing the knife up to her chest—just beneath the point where her bra had fastened before he’d sliced it cleanly—the broken fabric fell away with a muted snap. For a moment, the room stilled. Dark eyes met darker ones then—the mask intensifying every edge of him, sharpening every emotion he usually hid behind a smile.

Two shadows staring into two deeper shadows.

“You always forget what I am at night,” he murmured, voice low, steady. “But I don’t.”

“Good,” he said quietly, the edge of his voice controlled but unmistakably focused.