Lovestruck Crime Lord

You always knew you weren’t cut from the same cloth as others. While your classmates in school dreamed of being doctors, engineers, or influencers, you were sketching flames on notebooks, practicing fonts and tracing snake scales. Tattooing wasn’t a phase. It wasn’t rebellion. It was the way your soul spoke—through ink, through art, through the permanent mark of something bold and true. Being a tattoo artist was dope as hell. And you were good. Damn good.

It took years of blood and blisters, of chasing mentors and dealing with sexist gatekeepers who thought a girl with your face couldn’t hold a needle right. But you proved them wrong. You studied. You practiced. You shadowed every master you could find until your lines were cleaner than scalpels and your shading ran like silk. And finally, you opened your own shop.

It wasn’t just any shop. It was your sanctuary. A sleek little piercing and tattoo studio nestled between a ramen bar and a nightclub. Fluorescent lighting buzzed gently over your workstation, skull-themed decor hugged the walls, and the faint hum of your coil machine was practically music. You worked hard. You inked harder. Boys loved getting tattoos from you. Some came for the body art, some came for your body—but you had your boundaries, and a taser in your drawer just in case.

Today had been packed, one appointment after another. You’d pierced a pair of industrials for a regular, inked a sleeve full of koi on a first-timer, and even squeezed in a delicate sternum piece for a flirty college girl. By the time the clock hit 10 PM, your assistant had clocked out, and you were alone in the shop—exhausted but satisfied.

You stretched behind the desk, grabbing your jacket. Just as your fingers reached for the shutter handle, the door burst open.

SLAM.

A hulking man dressed in black shoved the glass wide open, nearly knocking you backward. You stumbled, your hip hitting the counter before landing unceremoniously on your butt. Your heart raced.

“What the hell—?”

Before you could gather your bearings, fifteen men marched in like they owned the place. Tactical boots. Matching suits. Guns tucked in their holsters. They moved like a militia, and your shop suddenly felt very small.

Then he walked in.

The air shifted. Thicker. Heavier. As if winter had stepped through the threshold on two feet.

He was tall. Towering. His platinum hair was slicked back in sharp, clean layers, a few rebellious strands falling against his temple like they had a mind of their own. His jaw could cut glass. His lips were full, but not soft—there was a sharpness to his expression, like he had never known softness at all. His suit—a tailored three-piece in charcoal and ash—clung to his broad frame like second skin, accentuating every curve of muscle beneath. The vest was snug across his chest, emphasizing the cut of his torso. A black tie hung perfectly from his collar, neat and deliberate. Gloves hugged his fingers, one of which he began peeling off as he entered, eyes raking over the shop like a panther scanning the jungle.

His irises were crimson. Not red. Crimson. Cold, reflective, deadly. One gloved hand idly held a gold-wrapped candy bar, which he bit into without breaking gaze. He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile.

You felt a chill run down your spine.

This wasn’t some client. This was someone who had never been told "no."

Your lips parted to speak, but before you could utter a sound, a pistol was drawn and pointed at your face.

“Don’t move,” one of the men growled. Another approached, handing you a black matte business card. Minimalist design. Gold lettering.

You read the name.

"Erebus Vane."

Your breath stopped.

You’d heard of him. Everyone had. The whispers. The news reports. The rumors in the dark corners of the internet. Erebus Vane was the shadow under the underworld’s bed. A phantom crime lord with ties to weapons trafficking, cybercrime, underground fights, elite corruption, and hell knew what else. It was said he once dismantled a rival cartel by himself. Some claimed he’d been a war orphan raised in the pits of Eastern Europe. Others said he was a military experiment gone rogue. What you knew for sure?

He was untouchable.

A man with no past, no fingerprints, no witnesses who lived to speak. The kind of man who owned cities in silence, whose name turned mafia bosses into cowards. His men were known to be fiercely loyal, willing to die for him with a grin. His enemies? They weren’t found.

You blinked, frozen like prey.

Erebus stepped forward. His gaze trailed lazily over the shop—your walls, your sketches, the display of needles and gloves. And then finally, his eyes landed on you. He chewed the last bit of his candy bar, wiped his fingers with a silk kerchief, and began removing his coat with elegant precision. He folded it and handed it to one of the men without looking.

Then came the vest. Button by button. Every movement was slow, deliberate. Like a predator undressing before the feast.

You instinctively took a step back, your breath caught.

Was he about to—?

But before your panic could escalate, his voice rolled out—low, smooth, and sinfully deep.

“Chill, doll-face. I’m here just for some tattoos.”

He smirked.

The bastard smirked—knowing exactly what you’d assumed.

You stood dumbfounded as another man approached. “Boss wants full chest and back coverage. This is his first ink. You're the only one he’ll let touch him.”

You blinked again.

First tattoo?

You looked back at Erebus, who was now undoing the first few buttons of his crisp white shirt, revealing the curve of his collarbone and the first hint of a chest carved like a Greek statue.

Then he spoke again.

“Don’t mess up, doll-face. I don’t like when my things get messed up.”