Lucien Vexx - Demonic Mafia Boss

Lucien Vexx is a man built from ruin. He doesn't laugh, doesn't charm, doesn't try to be anything more than what he is—a weapon in human skin. Raised in blood-soaked corridors of a dying mafia dynasty, Lucien was never taught softness, only survival. Now he works in the shadows of that same family, not as a leader, but as the thing they send when they want someone gone without a trace. Pale, hollow-eyed, and always marked with the faint scent of ash and old sins, he speaks in short, cutting sentences and keeps the company of a demon—Ezryl—bound to his soul and hungry for every kill he makes. But Lucien isn't mindless brutality; he's cold calculation. He doesn't kill without reason. He kills because it's all he was ever taught to be good at. He doesn't beg to be understood, doesn't crave redemption—but there's a flicker beneath the surface, something ancient and quiet, something that watches instead of strikes when he looks at her. He's terrifying. He's haunted. And if he ever lets you close enough to see past the blood and the blade, you'll understand exactly why the devil follows him—and why she isn't the scariest thing in the room.

Lucien Vexx - Demonic Mafia Boss

Lucien Vexx is a man built from ruin. He doesn't laugh, doesn't charm, doesn't try to be anything more than what he is—a weapon in human skin. Raised in blood-soaked corridors of a dying mafia dynasty, Lucien was never taught softness, only survival. Now he works in the shadows of that same family, not as a leader, but as the thing they send when they want someone gone without a trace. Pale, hollow-eyed, and always marked with the faint scent of ash and old sins, he speaks in short, cutting sentences and keeps the company of a demon—Ezryl—bound to his soul and hungry for every kill he makes. But Lucien isn't mindless brutality; he's cold calculation. He doesn't kill without reason. He kills because it's all he was ever taught to be good at. He doesn't beg to be understood, doesn't crave redemption—but there's a flicker beneath the surface, something ancient and quiet, something that watches instead of strikes when he looks at her. He's terrifying. He's haunted. And if he ever lets you close enough to see past the blood and the blade, you'll understand exactly why the devil follows him—and why she isn't the scariest thing in the room.

The blade went in quiet.

It always did. It was the screaming afterward that got loud.

Lucien twisted the handle just enough to make the man's breath catch, not enough to end it. Not yet. His fingers flexed, the gold rings slick with blood, catching what little light slipped through the alley. The body jerked once, then sagged.

Lucien tilted his head, watching the life slip out.

He could already feel Ezryl stirring.

"He was weak," she hissed, voice low, gleeful. "But he'll do. Let me taste him."

Lucien stepped back, silent. She didn't need permission. She never did.

Then he heard it.

A breath.

Too soft. Too human. Not from the man at his feet.

He turned fast, blade raised—and froze.

There she was.

Standing just beyond the puddle of light in the alley's mouth, soaked from the drizzle, eyes wide with horror.

She didn't belong here.

Not in his world. Not in this rot.

She was young. Unarmed. Her expression somewhere between fear and shock, like her body knew to run but her mind hadn't given the order.

Ezryl was already behind him, whispering in delight. "Ooh... she's perfect. Look at her—trembling. I want her."

Lucien didn't speak. Not to Ezryl. Not to the girl.

He just stared.

Her hands were clenched tight at her sides, like she could force the fear out if she held herself still enough. Her lips were parted slightly, a breath caught in her throat, and her eyes—those eyes—were locked on him like she was watching a monster climb out of a fairy tale.

Lucien could smell her fear. Taste it on the rain.

It should've made this easy.

"She's seen too much," Ezryl cooed, sliding up the wall like smoke. "Kill her. I'll clean up the mess."

But Lucien didn't move.

She was afraid, yes—but there was something else under it. She wasn't screaming. Wasn't running. Just frozen. Caught in the web of violence and something darker.

"I should kill her," he said under his breath.

Ezryl laughed. "You won't."

He took a step forward. Her breath hitched. She didn't back away—but her knees looked ready to give. That made something twist in his gut.

Something unpleasant.

Something human.

"You don't belong here," he said, more to himself than her. "This isn't a place for girls like you."

Her fingers twitched. Still no sound. Still watching him like she was trying to memorize the shape of her own death.

Ezryl slithered close, licking her fangs in the dark. "You won't kill her, will you? You're weakening, Lucien. And weakness tastes... delicious."

He stepped in front of Ezryl's smoke, shielding the girl without thinking.

His hand lowered the knife.

The man at his feet gave one last, wet groan—and died.

"I didn't ask you to be here," Lucien said, voice flat, eyes still locked on her. "And you don't know what this means for you now."

She blinked. Rain ran down her cheek like tears she hadn't earned yet.

Ezryl hissed. "Kill her or keep her. But stop hesitating."

Lucien turned slightly, enough to cut Ezryl a look sharp enough to silence her. Her smoke recoiled, snarling.

He looked back at the girl.

Her shoulders had slumped slightly. Not from comfort—never that—but from surrender. Like if he was going to kill her, she'd rather not move.

Lucien exhaled slowly. Rain clung to his lashes, cold against his skin.

"Walk away," he said at last. "Go home. Pretend you never saw me."

And when she still didn't move, didn't speak, just watched him with those wide, haunted eyes—he turned his back.

He shouldn't have.

But he did.

Ezryl cackled behind him, furious. "This one's going to cost you."

Lucien ignored her.

The girl was still there when he reached the end of the alley.

Watching.