Mafia's midnight muse.

The kiss

The heavy mahogany doors of the estate slammed shut behind Ruthran, echoing through the empty marble foyer like a gunshot. His blood was running hot, a chaotic mix of black-market whiskey and the haunting, impossible memory of her.

For twenty years, his nights had been a solitary torment of smoke, burning timber, and the phantom sensation of a small hand pulling him out of the dark. But now? Now the fire in his head was consumed by a different kind of blaze. A pair of wide, frightened eyes. A ridiculous pink bandage. The intoxicating, soothing scent of sandalwood and rain that cut straight through the filth of his soul.

"Ruthran, baby," Tasha’s voice purred from the dark lounge, her silhouette slipping into the hallway. She wore a silk robe that dragged behind her, her manicured fingers curling around a glass of amber liquor. "You’re late. And you smell like garbage and cheap street food."

Ruthran didn't even slow his pace. "Go back to bed, Tasha."

"I’m sick of being cast aside for your midnight strolls!" she hissed, stepping directly into his path, her eyes flashing with venomous jealousy. "You think I haven't noticed? You’ve been obsessed. Staring at that stupid cartoon band-aid like it’s a diamond. Who is she, Ruthran? Who is making the great underground king act like a pathetic fool?"

Ruthran’s hand clamped around her throat—not tight enough to crush, but firm enough to kill every drop of defiance in her body. The air in the hallway instantly froze.

"Don't push me tonight, Tasha," he whispered, his voice a lethal vibration against her skin. "You enjoy the jewels, the cars, the blood money. Enjoy them in silence, or I’ll throw you back into the gutter where I found you."

He shoved her aside. She stumbled, gasping for air, her eyes full of hatred as he walked away.

He didn't go to his bed. He knew sleep wouldn't come. Instead, he grabbed the keys to his dark gray Audi, shoved Arjun out of the driver's seat, and tore through the rain-slicked streets of the city.

He was out of control. He was the head of a multi-million-dollar criminal syndicate, a man who executed rivals without blinking, yet here he was, speeding through the fog just to breathe the air near a 24-hour noodle shop.

When he pulled up to the curb, the neon light was flickering rhythmically—buzz, buzz, buzz.

And there she was.

She was wiping down the outdoor plastic tables, her small frame shivering inside an oversized, faded sweater. The sight of her tore through Ruthran’s chest like a jagged blade. She looked so fragile, a tiny spark of life in a city that devoured weak things whole.

Ruthran stepped out of the car, slamming the door. The rain was misting over them, but the moment he crossed the pavement, the tang of asphalt faded. The sandalwood hit him. It flooded his senses, pulling him under like a tidal wave.

Diya gasped, dropping her rag as his imposing shadow fell over her. She took a step back, her hands instinctively flying to her chest.

"You..." she breathed, her voice trembling. "What are you doing here again? It’s past two in the morning!"

Ruthran didn't speak. He couldn't. His vision was slightly blurred from the alcohol, but his instincts were razor-sharp. He stepped closer, crowding her into the warm glow of the shop's doorway.

"It's not safe," he rasped out, his voice thick with raw emotion. He reached out, his big, calloused fingers hovering inches from her face, desperately wanting to touch her skin, to prove to his fractured mind that she was real. "It's never safe for you here at this hour. Go home, Diya."

Diya looked at him, her large eyes reflecting the pale neon light. She saw the dangerous edge in him—the blood-stained knuckles, the expensive suit, the dark power radiating from his body. But she didn't scream. She didn't run.

Instead, a quiet, devastating shadow passed over her face.

"Home?" she asked, a bitter, tragic laugh escaping her lips. She looked down at the wet pavement, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. "You keep telling me to go home like it's a sanctuary."

She looked up, meeting his intense, dark gaze with a haunting braveness that shattered the last of his composure.

"I'll be much safer out here in the cold with the strays," she whispered softly, "than I'll ever be in that house."

The words struck Ruthran with the force of a physical blow. Safer here than at home.

Before he could control the desperate beast inside him, Ruthran closed the distance between them. His hand cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling into her rain-damp hair, and he pulled her up into a hard, sudden kiss.

Diya gasped against his mouth, her body locking in instant, paralyzed shock.

For her, it wasn't a romance—it was an intrusion. It was terrifying, overwhelming, and uninvited, a dark king marking his claim under the flickering neon light. Her small hands pushed futilely against his broad, immovable chest, her heart hammering like a trapped bird.

But for Ruthran, the contact was pure, agonizing relief.

The moment his lips pressed against hers, the inferno in his mind went dead silent. The roaring flames, the smell of ash, the nightmare that had tormented his soul for twenty years—all of it vanished into the overwhelming taste of her. He drank her greedily, like a dying man stumbling upon water in a desert, exhaling a harsh, trembling breath against her skin.

He pulled back just as suddenly as he had taken her, his breathing ragged, his dark eyes wide with an intense, desperate light.

Diya staggered back against the doorframe, her hand flying to her swollen lips. Her eyes burned with tears of humiliation and fury. "Don't... don't you ever touch me again!" she choked out, her voice trembling with betrayal.

Before he could utter a word, she spun on her heel and slammed the metal shutter of the noodle shop down between them, locking herself inside.

Ruthran stood frozen in the rain, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. The taste of her was still on his lips, and the memory of her eyes and its innocents screamed at hi to claim her to be his... he will do it

He slowly turned around, his eyes turning into absolute void as three armed men from a rival syndicate emerged from the shadows of the alley, holding pipes and blades.

"Lost, rich boy?" one of them sneered.

a terrifying, beautiful smile spreading across his lips. He was going to tear these men apart. Not for his territory. Not for his pride. But because he had finally found his air, and he would burn the entire city to keep it.

"You picked the wrong street," Ruthran whispered, rolling up his sleeves as the rain drenched his hair. "And the wrong night."