You're in my seat."

Noa didn't look up.

He'd only just gotten his damn coffee, and this was his spot. Every morning, a second table by the window, chipped wood, sunlight through the cracks in the blinds like prison bars. Familiar. Safe. His ritual in a city that never stopped trying to eat him alive.

"Then find another one."

His voice was flat, bored. He hoped it carried enough don't fuck with me to make the guy move on. He was too tired for drama, hadn't even sipped the bitter burn of his overpriced coffee yet.

He heard the shift of a coat. Leather. Heavy. Expensive, by the way it creaked none of that cheap synthetic crap that peeled after two winters. And then the scent hit him.

Cologne. Sharp. Rich. Clean, but aggressive. The kind of smell that screamed I kill people and moisturize after.

Something about it scraped against his nerves like metal on glass.

"Stand. Up."

Now he looked.

And instantly regretted it.

The man was tall. Not just tall but big. Broad shoulders that filled the space, a jaw carved from goddamn marble, and the sort of presence that made every instinct in Noa's body scream danger. He wore black. Black coat, black shirt, silver cufflinks that probably cost more than Noa made in a month of double shifts at the bookstore.

But it wasn't the clothes. It was the eyes.

Steel gray. Cold enough to freeze fire. They locked onto Noa like a weapon, calculated and steady. A smile curved on the man's mouth slowly , deliberately. Like a lion watching a gazelle twist its ankle.

"Alessio Moretti," the man said. "And I don't ask twice."

Noa swallowed, his pulse kicking up like a racehorse at the gates.

Shit.

He knew that name. Everyone did.

Moretti. The family that ran half the city's underworld like a monopoly game with extra blood. Drugs, weapons, trafficking hell, rumors said even some of the judges owed him favors. Alessio wasn't just a Moretti. He was the Moretti.

And apparently, he wanted Noa's table.

Noa set his cup down. Slowly. His fingers were steady, but he felt the faint tremor underneath. His gut told him to stand up, walk away, don't poke the fucking bear.

But his pride had other plans.

"Well, Alessio," he said, voice sharp, "you just wasted your second ask."

Silence.

The café froze. Like someone hit pause on the whole scene. Noa heard a fork clatter to the floor somewhere behind him. No one moved. Not even the barista dared breathe.

Alessio's smile widened.

" "You're either the bravest guy in the room," he said, voice smooth but sharp like a knife pretending to be charming, "or just plain stupid."

Noa didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.

He just stared, like he'd already made peace with whatever came next."I get that a lot."

And for some reason, that amused the monster. His eyes glinted, mouth twitching like he'd just tasted something expensive and surprising.

He leaned in, just a fraction. Close enough for Noa to smell the cologne again now laced with something darker. Blood, maybe. Or maybe it was just the threat of it.

"I like you."

Noa blinked. "Good for you."

"No." Alessio tilted his head, smile curling slow and dangerous. "Bad for you."

Then he straightened, all quiet confidence and deadly grace. He turned, coat flaring like some villain in a movie, and walked out.

The café exhaled. Noa heard it. The unspoken relief, the collective heartbeat resuming.

"Holy shit," someone whispered behind him.

"Was that really him?"

Noa picked up his coffee with fingers that now trembled slightly.

"Guess so," he muttered, and took a long drink even though it's gone cold.

He thought that was the end of it.

It wasn't.

That night, Noa's shift at the bookstore ran late. Some college kid dropped a pile of philosophy books five minutes before close, and by the time he locked the door and set the alarm, it was already past eleven.

The rain hadn't stopped all night just kept coming down like the sky was pissed off. Streetlights bounced off the soaked pavement, turning everything into a blurry mess, like the whole city had been half-erase Puddles caught bits of neon and headlights, all warped and weird. He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket, hoodie yanked down like that would actually help.

Didn't matter. The cold still got in. Sharp. Rude. Like it had something to prove.

Each step splashed softly. Everything around him felt weirdly quiet like the city had turned the volume down. Just the low hiss of tires on wet pavement, a cab honking way off somewhere, and the soft hum of TVs or conversations behind windows he couldn't see into.

No music. No voices. Just his own breathing and the cold cutting through his jacket like it knew exactly where to hit.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He stopped walking.

Just for a second.

Adrian.

You okay? Heard about Moretti today. Careful.

Noa didn't reply. He didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to picture those eyes again. Or that voice. Or the smell of leather and cologne and trouble.

He turned a corner. Kicked a loose soda can out of his path. Tried to focus on the rhythm of his steps, the cold on his face, the feel of his keys in his pocket.

By the time he reached his building, his nose was numb. Fingers stiff. He climbed the stairs two at a time, craving warmth, bed, silence. His bones ached.

Key slid into the lock.

Turned.

The door creaked open.

And Noa froze.

Alessio Moretti was sitting on his damn couch.

Black shirt open at the collar. No tie. Legs spread in that infuriatingly confident way men do when they've never been told no. One arm draped over the back of the couch like he owned it. A crystal glass in his other hand, filled with something dark and probably aged longer than Noa had been alive.

"Took you long enough."

Noa's heart shot straight up into his throat, pounding so hard it actually hurt.

He stumbled back a step, eyes wide. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Alessio sipped his drink, unbothered. "Didn't like how we ended things earlier," he said, smooth as polished glass. "Thought we should... start over."

Noa stared at him like he was hallucinating. "Get out."

"No."

That one word was soft, calm, final. It carried weight. Like a promise. Or a death sentence.

"You interest me. That doesn't happen often."

"I don't care."

Alessio rose from the couch like a shadow gaining substance. Not fast. Just... inevitable. Graceful and terrifying. He moved like he'd had combat training, or ballet lessons. Or both.

"You should," he murmured.

Noa backed up. His heel bumped into the doorframe, stopping him cold.

"You break into people's homes often?" he snapped.

"Only when I want them."

The words landed like heat. Not just on his skin under it. Low. Intimate. Unfair.

"I'm not interested," Noa said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"Liar."

Alessio stopped right in front of him. Inches away. His gaze locked on Noa's mouth like he was deciding whether to kiss it or bite it. Maybe both.

He reached out, fingers ghosting along the edge of Noa's jaw. Light touch. Barely there. But Noa felt it everywhere.

"I can smell it on you," Alessio said. "The heat. The fight."

Noa's breath caught. Damn him.

"Fuck off."

Alessio chuckled. Low and amused. "Careful, Noa. Every time you fight me, I want you more."

"I'm not one of your toys."

"No," Alessio said. His voice dropped to a murmur. "You're better."

It was a compliment. It was a warning. It was a fucking seduction, and Noa hated how his knees wobbled.

Alessio leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Noa's ear.

"I will have you. One way or another."

Noa's skin prickled. His throat was dry. He hated this. Hated him.

But hated even more how his body didn't get the memo.

"Go to hell," he whispered.

Alessio's lips curved. "Already there."

He stepped back. Just enough. There was something in his eyes sharp, almost hungry. Like he already owned the moment, and maybe even her.

"I'll be seeing you soon," he said, voice low and way too calm.

And just like that, he turned and left.

The door clicked shut behind him. Not loud. But final.

Too final.

Noa sagged against the wall like someone had cut his strings. His hands shook. His breath came shallow and fast.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He was in so much trouble.