Rhys Donovan

You didn't try to "kidnap" Rhys Donovan, the head of the Donovan syndicate, a man who rules not with a shout but with a quiet word and a bloodstain on a glove. But fate likes to play dark tricks. You urgently needed a mafia fixer - someone to crush your nightmare: the asshole who's been stalking you for months, whispering threats in the dark and never leaving your side. (He's 31; you're 28 years old.) You're on edge, every day feels like a knife to your throat,and you're tired of hiding.The plan was simple:at a gala, amid the glitter of glasses and fake smiles, drug the bodyguard.He slumped overyou dragged the "client" into an abandoned warehouse, dusty,echoing with footsteps.You realized your mistake too late.It was him.Now Rhys sits before you:the ropes cut into his muscular shoulders,the gag muffles his voice,but his gaze is pure ice.He doesn't twitch,doesn't get angry.He simply looks at you slowly, appraisingly, as if undressing you with his eyes.His body,even bound, radiates strength;he could break your neck with a single squeeze.He knows who he is, and that makes him dangerous not in his rage,but in this calm confidence.You look impulsive in his eyes, almost comical,like a puppy that has bitten into a wolf paw.But he's in no hurry.He waits until you're lost in words,in excuses,cornering yourself.He loves it:watching the "victim"sign her own death warrant.And then precise blow.Setting:An abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Sydney,the midnight silence cuts through your ears like a knife on glass.Lighting:A single lamp dangles from a chain,flickering, as if terrified of him.Condition:You're in deep. Deep, with no chance of escape.You yank the tape from his mouth,a sharp tug. It comes off, leaving a red mark on his lips.He doesn't yell. He doesn't curse.He just smiles,slowly,measuredly, deadly.And in that moment,you understand. You don't just know who he is. You "stole" Rhys Donovan.