Criminal Attraction

1 - Ivy

I'm not saying my new neighbor is definitely in the mafia.

I'm just saying that if someone told me he'd personally garroted a man while discussing quarterly projections, I'd ask which quarter and move on with my day.

It's 4:47 on a Tuesday afternoon, and I'm standing in the lobby of my building with a half-empty iced latte and the kind of existential dread that only comes from eight hours at a reception desk answering the same three questions on loop.

I'm debating whether I have the energy to cook dinner or if it's a cereal-for-dinner kind of night, when the front door opens and I see him.

I don't know who he is. I've never seen him before. But the universe has clearly decided that today-today, of all days, when I'm wearing a blouse with a mysterious stain near the hem and my hair is doing that weird frizzy thing it does when London decides to be humid-is the day I meet the most intimidating man I've ever seen in my life.

He's tall. Aggressively tall. The kind of tall that makes you wonder if he's ever had a conversation with someone without them getting a crick in their neck. Six-foot-three, maybe six-four. And broad. Shoulders that look like they were designed by someone who believes in overachieving.

But it's not just his height.

It's the suit.

Oh my god, the suit.

It's black. Not regular black-black black. The kind of black that swallows light. Tailored so precisely it looks like it was stitched directly onto his body by a team of artisans who take their work very, very seriously. The fabric has a subtle sheen to it, the kind that whispers expensive without needing to shout.

His shirt is white. Crisp. Pristine. Open at the collar-no tie-which somehow makes the whole look more dangerous. Like he's too important to bother with a tie. Or like he took it off after using it to strangle someone.

I'm not ruling anything out.

His shoes are polished black leather, the kind you can probably see your reflection in. The kind that make a sound when they hit marble floors. A sound that says, I'm here, and you should probably be worried about it.

And then there's his face.

Jesus Christ, his face.

Dark hair, perfectly styled in that effortlessly tousled way that definitely isn't effortless. It probably requires three products and a mirror pep talk. Sharp cheekbones. A jaw so defined it could be used as a weapon. And his eyes- dark, intense, unreadable. The kind of eyes that look like they're cataloging everything and giving away nothing.

And don't get me started on his body.

His body moves with grace, the kind that can only belong to a man who knows how to f**k like a dream. I'm not objectifying him - don't get me wrong. I know that body can do incredible things beyond s*x. He's probably a great dancer, naturally athletic. But what was that body made to do best? f**k. Without a doubt, that man was built to f**k.

He's holding a phone to his ear, speaking in a low, clipped voice. I can't make out the words, but the tone is unmistakable; controlled, authoritative, the vocal equivalent of a closed fist.

He doesn't look at me.

Doesn't even glance in my direction.

Just strides past the front desk toward the lifts with the kind of purpose that suggests he's never been uncertain about anything in his entire life.

I watch him press the button. Watch the lift doors open almost immediately, like they've been waiting for him and he disappears inside the small metal box.

I stand there, the last of my iced latte halfway to my mouth, and think, that man is absolutely in the mafia.

I'm in my flat for exactly ninety seconds before I'm texting Sophie.

Me: SOPHIE

Me: EMERGENCY

Sophie: if this is about a dead plant again i'm blocking you

Me: It's not about a plant. It's about a man.

Sophie: go on

Me: I think my building just got a new resident.

Me: And I think he's a crime lord.

Sophie: ...ivy

Me: I'M SERIOUS

Me: He was wearing a suit that probably costs more than my yearly salary.

Sophie: okay but that just means he has money

Sophie: maybe he's just a businessman?

Me: Businessmen don't look like they're mentally calculating how to dispose of a body while waiting for a lift.

Sophie: you're being dramatic

Me: I'M BEING OBSERVANT

Sophie: you need therapy. i'm hanging up

Me: You can't hang up over text.

Sophie: watch me

I toss my phone onto the couch and stare at the ceiling.

Fine.

Maybe I'm overreacting.

Maybe he's just a well-dressed businessman who happens to look like he moonlights as an enforcer for a criminal syndicate.

Maybe.

But I don't think so.

At 6:30 I decide to leave my flat to grab dinner because cereal feels too depressing even for me, and also because I've been staring at my kitchen for twenty minutes without the motivation to actually cook anything.

I'm locking my door when I hear footsteps in the hallway.

I glance over.

It's him.

The suit is gone-replaced by dark jeans and a charcoal henley that fits him in a way that should be illegal-but the aura is still there. Intense. Controlled. Vaguely threatening.

He's walking toward the lift, keys in hand.

I freeze.

Do I wait? Do I take the stairs? Do I pretend I forgot something and go back inside?

Before I can decide, he glances over and sees me.

Our eyes meet.

He nods. Once. Curt.

The same nod a mob boss gives to an underling before ordering a hit.

I'm sure of it.

"Hi," I say, because my mouth has apparently decided to betray me. His expression doesn't change. Just nods again and keeps walking.

Cool. Great.

I'm definitely going to die in this building.

I follow him to the lift at a very deliberate distance-close enough to not look weird, far enough to not seem like I'm trying to interact-and pray that the universe has mercy on me.

The lift doors open.

He steps inside.

I hesitate for half a second, then step in after him.

He's looking at his phone. Scrolling through something with the kind of focus that suggests whatever he's reading is either very important or very incriminating.

I'm looking at the floor.

The lift is silent except for the mechanical hum of movement before suddenly his phone rings and I jump. "What do you not understand about calling me at this time-no. Tell him that I will handle it my way."

The lift stops on the third floor and the doors open.

And Derek gets on.

Oh, for f**k's sake.

Derek works in the same building as me-different company, same floor. He's been trying to get me to go out with him for three months despite the fact that I've turned him down approximately fourteen times in increasingly creative ways.

He's not a bad guy. Not really. Just... persistent. And completely oblivious to social cues. And a little too fond of unnecessary physical contact.

"Ivy!" he says, like we're old friends and not two people who have had exactly six conversations, all of which I tried to escape.

"Hi, Derek," I say, forcing a smile.

He steps into the lift, far closer to me than necessary considering there's plenty of space, and I feel my shoulders tense immediately.

The doors close.

"Long day?" he asks, leaning in slightly.

"Yeah," I say, shifting half a step to the side. Away from him. "You know how it is."

"Tell me about it." He laughs-too loud for the small space, especially when I know that the man on the left side of me is on the phone-and then his hand is on my shoulder.

I stiffen.

"You're so tense," he says, squeezing lightly. "You need to relax."

I do not need to relax. I need him to stop touching me.

"I'm fine," I say, trying to shift away again, but he follows.

"Come on," he says, his voice dropping into what I think he believes is a soothing tone but actually just sounds condescending. "You work too hard. You should let me take you out. Help you unwind."

His hand is still on my shoulder. His thumb is rubbing small circles into my collarbone.

I want to shove him off. Tell him to back the f**k up. But my brain has gone into that horrible freeze mode where I'm too aware of not wanting to "make a scene" or "be rude," even though he's the one being rude by invading my space.

"I'm good, thanks," I say, my voice tight.

Behind me, the man clears his throat, "Get it done tomorrow, I'll be in the office early-"

"You sure?" He leans in closer. I can smell his cologne-something aggressively musky that makes my nose itch. "I know this great place in Soho. Cocktails. Good music. We could-"

"She said no."

The voice comes from behind me.

Low. Calm. Absolutely laced with menace.

I turn my head slightly and see him, but now his eyes are locked on Derek with the kind of focus that makes the air feel ten degrees colder.

Derek blinks. "Sorry, mate, we're just talking-"

"No," the man says, his tone flat. "You're touching her. She's uncomfortable. And you're going to stop."

There's a beat of silence.

Derek's hand is still on my shoulder.

The man's gaze drops to it. Then back up to Derek's face.

"Step away from her," he says, his voice dropping even lower, "if you want to keep your arms. Otherwise, I'll sue you for getting blood on my suit after I rip them off you. Are we clear?"

The words are delivered so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that for a second I'm not sure I heard him correctly.

But Derek clearly did.

His hand jerks away from my shoulder like I've suddenly caught fire. His face goes pale.

"I-sorry, I didn't-"

"You did," the man says. "And now you're going to move to the other side of the lift and stay there."

Derek practically scrambles backward, pressing himself against the opposite wall.

The lift is silent.

I'm staring at the man-my neighbor, the mobster, the person who just threatened to rip someone's arms off - and he's staring back at me.

Then, without breaking eye contact he says, "I muted myself," before pressing a button on his phone and lifting it back to his ear.

I blink.

He raises an eyebrow, just slightly, like he's daring me to comment.

I don't.

I can't.

Because my brain has just fully short-circuited. The man was on what seemed to be a very important phone call, and he muted himself. For me.

The lift dings, the doors opening to reveal the hallway of the lobby.

Derek bolts out like he's being chased by hellhounds.

I step out more slowly, my heart pounding in my chest for reasons I don't entirely understand.

The man follows.

He's looking at me. Really looking. And for the first time since I saw him in the lobby, his expression shifts-just slightly. Something almost like concern flickers across his face.

"You alright?" he asks.

His voice is different now. Softer. Still deep, still controlled, but without the edge.

I nod. "Yeah. I-thank you."

He shrugs, like threatening to dismember someone is just a normal Tuesday activity. "He was being a prick."

"He was," I agree.

There's a pause.

I should say something else. Something normal. Something that doesn't make me sound like I've completely lost the ability to form sentences.

But all I can think about is the way he looked at Derek. The way his voice went cold and dangerous. The way he stepped in without hesitation.

And the way he's looking at me now.

Not like I'm an inconvenience.

Not like I'm invisible.

Like I'm... someone worth noticing.

"I'm Lucian," he says, breaking the silence.

"Ivy," I manage.

"Ivy," he repeats, and the way he says my name-low, deliberate-does something very inconvenient to my pulse.

---

I'm back in my flat after I grab some dinner, door locked, standing in the middle of my living room like I've just witnessed a crime.

Which, technically, I kind of did. Threatening someone counts, right?

Now, I'm trying to wrap my head around the fact that my new neighbor is definitely dangerous, definitely intimidating, and definitely just did the hottest thing I've ever witnessed in my entire life.

It's fine.

Everything's fine.

I'm absolutely not going to think about the way he said my name.

Or the way he looked at me.

Or the way my stomach flipped when he stepped between me and Derek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Absolutely not.

I'm going to make dinner, watch something mindless on Netflix, and forget this entire evening happened.

Starting now.

Right after I replay the entire lift scene in my head one more time.

For safety reasons.

Obviously.