Blood wasn't new to me.
Not the kind that stains your conscience—just the kind that stains marble floors. You learn to scrub fast, not ask questions, and never look anyone in the eye.
But this time, I could feel him watching me.
Johnson Moretti.
The name alone could freeze a city. He wasn't just feared—he was worshipped. A living myth with a suit stitched from silence and sin.
I kept my head down as I knelt in his office, rag in one hand, bleach in the other. A red streak stretched across the floor like someone's last word. I didn't know whose blood it was. I never asked.
The ice in my spine didn't come from the blood.
It came from him.
He didn't say a word, just sipped his scotch and stared like I was a painting he couldn't understand.
Finally, his voice cut through the air.
"Why him?"
I blinked, frozen.
Did I hear that right?
"Excuse me?"
He stood, smooth as a shadow. The scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder followed him.
"The boy you meet after work. The one who makes you smile like you forgot what pain feels like."
My mouth went dry.
He'd been watching me. Ethan. He knew about Ethan.
I stood up slowly, my heartbeat pounding in my throat.
"You've been following me?"
His jaw clenched, but his voice stayed calm.
"You've been mine since the first time you walked into this house and didn't flinch."
I laughed—cold, bitter.
"I'm not yours. I never was."
He took a step closer. Not threatening. Not yet.
"You will be. One way or another."
And that was when I realized something terrifying.
This wasn't lust.
This wasn't power.
This was obsession. And it had my name on it.