I press myself against the corner of the building, peering around carefully. My heart kicks up a beat, adrenaline starting to trickle into my bloodstream.
There are maybe seven or eight men scattered around the concrete lot. All of them are huge, the kind of bulk that comes from both the gym and a willingness to use violence. Tattoos crawl up their necks, disappear under their shirts. The ink is too detailed, too extensive to be anything casual. These aren’t guys who got drunk and decided to get matching tribal bands. These are mobsters.
Several bodies are already down, sprawled across the concrete in various states of consciousness. One guy is trying to crawl away, leaving a smear of blood behind him. Another is curled on his side, wheezing.
The enforcers have formed a loose circle, and they’re dragging someone forward. The man stumbles, barely keeping his feet. Blood drips from his nose, his lip split open. His hands are bound behind his back.
Two of the enforcers grab him by the arms and haul him forward, then literally throw him. He hits the concrete hard, unable to catch himself with his hands tied, and lands in a heap at someone’s feet.
Their boss obviously.
The boss doesn’t even look bothered by the carnage at his feet.
He pulls out a cigarette, movements unhurried as he lights it. The flame illuminates his face for a second, and I get a better look at him. Not much older than me, maybe early thirties. Striking in a way that makes my breath catch. His bone structure looks like it was cut from glass, all sharp angles and perfect symmetry. Dark hair styled back with not a strand out of place despite the violence he’s clearly been orchestrating.
His eyes though. Those are what hold my attention. Cold. Calculating. There’s not an ounce of sympathy in them as he stares down at the bleeding man at his feet.
He takes a long drag, exhales a stream of smoke that curls up into the darkening sky.
“You should know better,” he says, voice smooth and almost conversational. “You know what we do to traitors.”
The man on the ground coughs, blood bubbling at his lips.
The boss tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering something mildly interesting. “I’ll give you one chance to beg nicely for your life.”
The man on the ground spits blood onto the concrete, some of it splattering on the boss’s expensive-looking shoes. “Go fuck yourself.”
The boss laughs. Actually laughs, but the sound is ice cold, without any real humor.
Then, without even pausing, without removing the cigarette from his lips, he lashes out. His foot connects with the man’s jaw in a vicious kick that sends blood and what might be teeth spraying across the concrete.
My heart slams against my ribs.
The man crumples sideways, groaning. The boss squats down, still smoking casually, and grabs him by the hair, yanking his head up so they’re face to face.
“Have it your way then.”
The man on the ground suddenly goes rigid. His whole body starts to shake, trembling violently. Even the enforcers standing around shift uncomfortably, some of them taking involuntary steps backward.
I don’t understand what it is that’s making them react that way until it reaches me.
The scent rolls over me like a wave, crashes into my senses with enough force to make me grab the wall for support. Pheromones. Strong enough to make my knees weak, to make my head spin, to make every nerve ending in my body light up at once.
A dominant alpha.
But not just any dominant alpha. These pheromones are stronger than anything I’ve ever felt. They make my previous encounters seem like cheap knockoffs, watered-down versions of the real thing. This is the genuine article, undiluted and overwhelming.
My vision actually blurs for a second. The air feels thick, heavy, like I’m trying to breathe through honey. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.
The man on the ground has completely folded. He’s whimpering now, curled into himself, all his earlier defiance crushed under the weight of those pheromones. Even his own men look uncomfortable, shoulders hunched, eyes averted.
The boss doesn’t even seem to be trying. He’s still squatting there, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching the man crumble with what looks like mild interest.
I should leave. I should turn around and get the hell out of here before someone notices me lurking in the shadows like a creep. This is mob business, the kind of thing that gets people killed for witnessing.
But I can’t move.
My eyes are locked on the boss, drinking in every detail. The way he holds himself with absolute confidence, like he owns every inch of space around him. The casual cruelty in how he’s using his pheromones to break this man without even lifting a finger. The complete lack of mercy in his expression.
