De Vale's Savior

​It was 11:00 pm. Lyra was running late from her standard Tuesday. A twenty-seven-year-old assistant lecturer in art, Lyra Laurence had messy, curly hair, black doe eyes, and a 5'3" height. She looked extremely beautiful in a way that couldn't be explained. ​She was late because today she had an exhibition at her university. She had to help the students. At the university, she was every student's favorite lecturer because she was funny and didn't care about university rules as much as the older lecturers did. She was stubborn in her own way; even her professor parents were confused about how they had had a chaotic creature like her. When they questioned her about it, Lyra only had one answer: she said her mom and dad were in a very happy, joyful moment when they made her, so the conversation was over. ​The streets were extremely dark with a few dim lights. There were no people in the alley she had chosen as a shortcut. ​On the other side of the road, Renzo de Vale was literally having a bad day. He had been shot by one of his own bodyguards who had just betrayed him in the middle of a business meeting—well, it was the kind of business where they dealt with guns and drugs. Renzo's Desert Eagle was in his jacket pocket, yet he still had not shot any of them, even his betraying bodyguard. Renzo was in shock over how much he had trusted that man. His other bodyguards were fighting the enemies, and they had told Renzo to retreat. ​Renzo, the underworld mafia king, was a 6'3" tall, masculine, lean man with icy blue eyes. A distinct, jagged scar sliced through his left eyebrow down toward the middle of his face. It wasn't ugly; it gave him an edgy, dangerous magnetism that made people either want to run away or look closer. Speaking sharp, low Italian curses into the night, Renzo dragged his massive frame out of the alley and stumbled onto the secluded side street, his vision blurring from blood loss. ​He didn't see the headlights until it was too late. ​Lyra gasped as a massive figure rolled over the hood of her sedan and tumbled onto the road. She slammed on the brakes, her heart beating so fast it felt like it was about to come out. ​"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," she whispered, staring through the windshield. ​The street was dead silent. No pedestrians. No witnesses. Just a giant of a man lying motionless in front of her bumper. ​Her first instinct was just to run away in her sedan. Because she was in an extreme hurry and also because this was not a normal road that people always used, the person she hit could never be a normal person. That scared her. She looked around and saw no one. She restarted the car, but then switched it off anyway. ​"Bad Lyra. You can't just hit and run. Was that what your parents taught you?" ​With a groan, she grabbed her umbrella, stepped out of the car, and jogged over to the body. "Hey! Sir? Are you alive, or are you okay? Can you please talk? Oh my god, is he dead?" ​She knelt down, pushing her damp, curly hair out of her face. Up close, the guy was terrifyingly huge, insanely handsome, and... smelling strongly of iron. Lyra pulled back her hand and realized it was covered in dark, thick blood. But it wasn't from the impact of her car. His expensive, bespoke charcoal suit jacket was torn, revealing a fresh, unmistakable bullet wound. ​"Fantastic. He’s already been shot," Lyra said, blinking in disbelief. "I didn't just hit a pedestrian. I hit John Wick." ​Taking him to a hospital meant the police, statements, and getting dragged into whatever gang war this guy was clearly losing. Leaving him here meant he’d die on the pavement. What if there was CCTV and he died? ​"Sir Paws-a-Lot is going to be so mad about this," she sighed. ​Putting every ounce of adrenaline into her 5'3" little body, Lyra grabbed the man by his lapels. He weighed a ton, but she managed to drag him across the wet road, cursing his heavy bone density the entire time. With a final, agonizing heave, she managed to roll his 6'3" body straight into the dickie of her car. ​"Well, you look good in my dickie. You perfectly fit here." ​She slammed the trunk shut with a sharp clunk, locking the billionaire mafia boss safely inside. ​Getting back into the driver's seat, she wiped her bloody hands on a stray napkin, pulled out her phone, and dialed her childhood best friend, Leo, who happened to be a resident surgeon. ​After a few rings, he answered the call with a heavy, sleepy voice. Lyra felt that itchy feeling on her nose when someone is blaming you or cursing you. Leo was definitely doing it right now. ​"Lyra, don't tell me your chubby cat is not good, or that he has eaten one of your art papers and I need to come for a surgery." ​Lyra breathed heavily for a moment. ​"Not exactly. I hit a man with my car. A very large, very scary man who is currently riding in my trunk. Also, he already had a bullet hole in him when I found him." ​"Are you insane?!" Leo yelled. "Call an ambulance! I'm not getting involved in a crime scene!" ​"Oh, you are absolutely getting involved," Lyra said cheerfully, though her eyes narrowed. ​"f**k you, Lyra, this is not a joke. Call an ambulance and take him to a hospital." ​"I can't. I was the wrong one here. I just hit him because I was driving on the wrong side, and of course, that was a forbidden alley for civilians. Do you think that I would look great in an orange jumpsuit? That will definitely clash with my skin tone. And think about how many things I have done for you, Leo. How many times I have acted as your girlfriend to save you from your bunch of exes. Just help me, please." ​"Breathe, i***t. I will come." ​"That is a good decision. Hurry up and move." ​She didn't wait for his stuttering protest. She hung up, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, and took a deep breath. ​"Well," she told herself, glancing in the rearview mirror. "This definitely beats grading art history essays."