Kyan stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. The place looked like it had survived a tornado… or three shirtless idiots who thought the floor was a laundry basket.
A crumpled piece of paper sat on his pillow. He picked it up, read it, and scoffed.
"Gone for knife training.
Clean the room.
Scrub the toilet.
—Softie 💋"
That damn kiss emoji.
Kyan's eye twitched. "I swear one day I'll poison their protein shakes."
He turned slowly, arms folding behind his back as he let out a low exhale, calming himself. His strong arms flexed slightly, hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
"This is not what I imagined when I said I wanted to live in a mansion," he mumbled under his breath, kicking someone's boxer shorts under the bed.
Just then… a deep voice from the doorway.
"Who's making you do all this work, Softie?"
Kyan jumped and spun around so fast, he nearly tripped over a dumbbell.
Nico.
In black. As usual. And looking like he walked straight out of a daydream.
Kyan's heart skipped. "I—uh, they—I'm not—"
Before he could blink, Nico had crossed the room and pinned him gently against the wall.
One arm rested beside Kyan's head, the other sliding down to catch his waist—firm, possessive, unbothered by boundaries.
Their eyes met.
And for a brief second… Nico's breath caught.
What am I doing?
What the hell am I doing?
He could smell Kyan's clean skin, that faint vanilla scent, feel his chest rise and fall against his own. Those eyes… damn, those eyes.
I can't even control myself.
I just wanted to see his face… I missed those eyes.
Kyan stared up, lips parting in surprise, voice shaky. "Mas..t..er…"
And Nico? He was losing it.
Not because Kyan was soft.
But because he was soft enough to make him melt.
Nico's grip didn't loosen. His fingers brushed Kyan's waist like he owned it—and maybe he did. His eyes dropped to Kyan's lips, then rose again, slow… dominant.
That smirk.
That dangerously lazy smirk.
"You look cute when you're mad, Softie," he said, voice deep, smooth like sin. "But don't forget who owns that fire."
Kyan's breath hitched.
Nico leaned in closer, his lips just by Kyan's ear now.
"Next time you whine about chores… I'll make you clean my room. On your knees. In silence. Got it, pet?"
Kyan's knees almost buckled. His cheeks were red. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Nico chuckled—low, rough, intimate. His hand slid up Kyan's jaw, tilting it gently.
"Say it."
"…Y-Yes, Master…" Kyan whispered, eyes wide, breath shallow.
Nico finally stepped back, licking his bottom lip like he wasn't even done yet.
"Good boy," he said, turning with that slow, dangerous walk that said he never had to ask twice.
Kyan blinked, still pressed to the wall, chest rising and falling way too fast.
Nico was already halfway to the door when Kyan found his voice.
"W–Wait! Master!" he called out, breathless.
"What were you even doing here?"
Nico paused, hand on the doorframe. He didn't look back right away—just gave a slow, calculated breath like he was building a believable excuse in that dangerously clever mind of his.
Then he turned, cocky smirk back on like armor.
"Checking if my men were training."
He nodded toward the messy room with zero shame. "Clearly, they weren't."
Beat.
"And someone's clearly not doing their job either, Softie."
Kyan opened his mouth, but Nico was already gone.
Door shut.
But deep inside Nico's chest, behind all that smug arrogance and calm dominance… his thoughts were chaos.
I just came to see you. And those damn eyes.
The way you look at me like I'm not just another monster.
It's annoying. Addictive. Dangerous.
He clenched his jaw.
Get a grip, Nico. You're the King, not some schoolboy with a crush.
But still, he let his fingers brush the spot where he'd touched Kyan's waist.
Like he'd feel him there for the rest of the day.
A sharp knock yanked Nico out of his thoughts.
"Boss!" one of the guards burst out, breathless and wide-eyed. "There's hell of a trouble!"
Nico turned slowly, annoyed that anyone dared disturb him while his mind was still dancing around Kyan's face.
"What is it?" he asked, cold and sharp.
The guard didn't speak—he simply stepped forward and held out a small black box, slightly dented at the corner. Nico took it without a word, flicked it open, and pulled out the folded piece of thick paper inside.
His eyes scanned the note.
His jaw clenched.
"From the Massimos," the guard whispered.
The message was written in bold red ink:
---
"You've made the mistake of crossing us.
Keila Massimo is in your walls.
You have 24 hours to surrender her.
If not… we burn the entire Luciano Clan to the ground.
— The Massimos"
---
Nico's grip on the note tightened, veins pulsing at his temple
Nico stood by the window, still holding the small folded paper. His jaw ticked as his eyes scanned the words again.
"Who the hell is Keila Massimo?" he asked, not looking up.
The guard shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. "She's… the only daughter of the Massimos, boss," he said. "She went missing some days back. And now… they think we took her."
Nico turned slowly, one brow raised. "Us?" His voice was calm, too calm.
The guard nodded. "They said if we don't return her in twenty-four hours, they'll burn everything down. The whole Luciano clan."
Nico stared for a second, then hissed under his breath, low and sharp.
"If we really got their damn daughter," he said with a slow smirk, "she wouldn't even be alive by now."
He stepped forward, tossing the crumpled message onto the table like trash.
"I'd have killed her myself," he muttered, eyes darkening. "The way I hate the fucking Massimos…"
He uncapped his pen and began to write, every stroke sharp, furious, and clean.
---
To the Massimo Clan,
You've made two mistakes.
One—you think you can threaten a Luciano.
Two—you think I care about your daughter.
Let me be clear. If Keila Massimo is within my territory, she's already breathing her last.
But she's not. Because if she was, I'd have sent you her heart in this box—not a letter.
You have 24 hours to apologize.
Publicly.
Or I will burn your name from every wall it's written on.
And I will start with your bloodline.
Sleep tight.
You won't be sleeping long.
—Nico Luciano
King of the Underground.