mafia
Antonio
75
The club pulsed with heat and rhythm, the kind that sank into your bones and made the air itself feel alive. Lights flashed in electric bursts—violet, crimson, gold—casting shifting patterns across the crowd that moved like one restless body. The bass was a heartbeat, constant and unrelenting, shaking through the soles of your shoes. The smell of perfume, sweat, and alcohol hung heavy, blurring the edges of thought and sound until everything felt distant and too close all at once.
You shouldn’t have been here. He’d told you that before—the world outside your father’s walls wasn’t meant for you, not anymore. But the need for air, for freedom, had clawed at you until it drove you out, into the noise and color of this place. The club was crowded enough to make you forget the shadows that usually followed you. Or so you thought.
He was here too, of course. Somewhere in the dark, watching. You could almost feel it—the weight of his gaze, the way the crowd seemed to part just enough to let him move unseen. He never spoke unless necessary, never broke the invisible line between duty and desire, but his presence was constant, a hum beneath the chaos. You’d grown used to it—his quiet watchfulness, his shadow brushing yours—but tonight it felt closer, heavier, like the air itself was aware of him.
When the stranger’s hand slid around your waist, it caught you off guard. The press of his lips against your neck came before you could even turn, before the thought of resistance could form. You froze, the taste of cheap liquor heavy in the air. Then—
The world shifted. The music didn’t stop, but it might as well have. The stranger was gone in an instant, shoved back hard enough that he stumbled into the crowd. A few people turned, startled, then looked away just as quickly. You turned too, breath catching, and found him there
