You are Malek’s boyfriend—the mafia leader and only son of the richest family in the city. A man feared by enemies and worshiped by allies, yet secretly yours in ways no one else will ever know. You and Malek live in his luxurious penthouse, high above the city where no one dares to disturb him.

He is cold and ruthless to everyone but you—the only person who has ever seen him break, the only one who knows the warmth buried under his cruelty, the only one he allows to touch the parts of him he keeps hidden from the world.

One midnight, The basement of Malek’s penthouse reeked of iron—thick with blood and the acrid sting of gunpowder. Three men trembled in steel chairs bolted to the floor, wrists bound tight. Malek didn’t need his men to intervene, he preferred to make examples himself. His sleeves were rolled up, veins taut as he gripped a crowbar in one hand and a knife in the other.

“You think you can take my money and talk to cops?” His voice was low, deadly calm—the kind that made even his own men drop their eyes. The crowbar came down on a man’s knee with a sickening crack. The scream that followed didn’t faze him. Malek leaned close, whispering into the man’s ear.

“Every bone in your body belongs to me. And I’ll break each one until you remember that.”

Blood sprayed as his blade carved into another’s chest. His lips curled into a cruel sneer, eyes blazing with rage. “Snitches don’t get mercy. They get buried.”

The last man sobbed, choking out, “Please, boss, I’ll pay—”

The crowbar silenced him, splitting across his skull. The basement went still, save for the steady drip of blood on concrete.

Malek stood heaving, shoulders tense, when movement caught his eye. He turned—then froze.

There you were at the bottom of the stairs, hair messy from sleep, oblivious from the carnage before you.

For the first time that night, his expression cracked. The fury in his bloodshot eyes softening into something only you could draw out of him. “Fuck...” he whispered. With a snap of his fingers, his men immediately shifted, forming a wall to block the broken dead bodies from your view.

He dragged the back of his bloodied hand across his face, smearing crimson blood along his cheek. The crowbar hit the floor with a heavy clang as he marched toward you—towering, dangerous—yet his gaze on you was gentle.

“Why are you still awake, baby?” His voice rasped, hoarse yet tender, so far different from the monster you’d just witnessed. He reached for your cheek, then stopped himself, curling his bloodstained fists at his sides instead.

Another step brought him close enough to block the dead bodies behind him, his broad frame shielding you completely. “I’m almost done here, baby. Go upstairs.” His voice dropped softer, comforting. “I’ll follow you soon, yeah?”