The neon sign of 'The Rusty Shard' flickered, casting a sickly bruised light over the grimy bar counter. Mio wiped the same spot for the tenth time, his knuckles white against the damp rag. In this part of the city, silence was a luxury, and tonight, the silence was heavy—like the air before a thunderstorm.
He hated the smell of this place. It reeked of cheap gin, desperation, and the lingering scent of men who had nothing left to lose. Mio, however, had everything to lose—mostly his dignity and the few pennies he was saving to escape this hellhole.
"Another one, Mio," a regular slurred, pushing a glass forward.
Mio didn't look up. He didn't want to see the pity in the man's eyes. "You've had enough, Gus. Go home before the shadows start biting."
But the shadows were already biting.
The heavy oak doors of the bar didn't just open; they seemed to surrender. The music died a sudden, strangled death. The air didn't just get cold—it turned lethal.
Mio felt the hair on his neck stand up. He didn't need to look to know who it was. There was only one man in this city who carried the scent of expensive tobacco and impending graves.
𝘝𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘝𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯.
The Mafia King didn't walk into a room; he owned it. Every step he took in his polished leather boots sounded like a rhythmic death sentence on the floorboards. Behind him, a wall of black suits—his shadows—filled the space, turning the dive bar into a courtroom where Vane was the judge, the jury, and the executioner.
Mio kept his head down, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Don't look up. Don't breathe. Just be a ghost, he whispered to himself.
But ghosts have a habit of being seen by monsters.
"Mio Zenchi, isn't it?"
The voice was a low, resonant hum that vibrated in Mio's very marrow. It was smooth as silk and sharp as a razor.
Mio's hand trembled. A drop of sweat traced a path down his spine. Before he could respond, a heavy hand slammed onto the counter, and the world tilted.
Vane hadn't come for the cheap liquor. He had come for the file sitting on his desk for weeks—a file about a bartender who had once stared down a gunman without blinking. Vane needed a pawn who wouldn't break, and tonight, he was going to see if Mio was made of glass or steel.
With a grunt of effort, Dante, Vane's right-hand, a man built like a stone wall with a jagged scar running down his neck, hauls Mio over the bar entirely, the boy's body hitting the floor with a dull thud before Dante yanks him back up by the collar. He drags Mio across the floor, the boy's shoes scuffing against the sticky, beer-stained floor until they reach the edge of the lounge. With a brutal shove to the back of Mio's knees, Dante forces him down into the plush carpet at Vane's feet.
Mio's breath comes in jagged, painful gasps as he is forced onto his knees. The impact with the floor sends a jolt of pain through his legs, but he refuses to let out a sound. He finds himself trapped between Vane's spread knees. He looks up, and for the first time, the sheer scale of Vane's power is undeniable. The tattoos on Vane's neck look like living shadows in the dim light.
Mio's body jolts under the weight of Vane's shoe, the leather pressing hard against his collarbone. The humiliation is thick, a bitter taste in the back of his throat, but the physical pressure acts as an anchor, keeping him from spiraling into pure panic. He feels the heat of Vane's gaze and the cold reality of the gun resting just inches away, yet he doesn't crumble.
He lets out a sharp, ragged breath, his chest heaving against the constraint of Vane's foot. He doesn't try to push the leg away; instead, he leans into the pressure slightly, his blue eyes burning with a sudden, wild clarity.
"Little bird," Vane says, his voice a low, amused rumble. He leans his head back, looking down the bridge of his nose at Mio. "I don't need a piece of lead to prove I'm the sun your world revolves around. You're on your knees because I willed it. You're breathing because I haven't closed my hand yet."
He presses his shoe a little firmer into Mio's shoulder, feeling the bone beneath the fabric. "Tell me, boy... is it bravery that makes you talk back, or are you just so pathetic that you're looking for a quick way out of this miserable life?"
"Neither," Mio spits, his voice gaining a sudden, reckless strength. "It's just that... I've spent my whole life serving people like you. Rich men who think they can buy the air I breathe." He tilts his head back, forcing Vane to look him in the eye despite the angle. "You can kill me, but you can't make me believe you're a god. You're just a man with a lot of shadows, Vesperian. And you look more tired of them than I am of this bar."
A collective, sharp intake of breath ripples through the bodyguards. Dante's hand twitches toward his second blade, his eyes wide with genuine shock. No one—not even Sloane—speaks to Vane Vesperian with such raw, psychological honesty.
Vane withdraws his shoe slowly. He leans forward until his face is inches from Mio, the scent of his expensive tobacco mixing with the air. Vane places the cold muzzle of the gun against Mio's temple, then drags it down the curve of his cheek with slow, agonizing deliberation.
Vane's index finger curls around the trigger. "Keep talking," he whispers, his voice a dark, velvet caress.
Mio looks into Vane's starless eyes. Then, his chin trembles, and he leans forward—not away from the gun, but into it. "Pull... the trigger," Mio chokes out. "Kill me... and go back to your... empty life. See if... the silence... feels any better tomorrow." A single, frantic tear escapes, tracking a path down his pale cheek, but his gaze remains locked on the mafia boss.
For the first time in Vane's life, his finger refuses to close. Slowly, he pulls the muzzle away. The metal makes a soft, sticky sound as it leaves Mio's skin. The silence in the bar is no longer heavy with death; it is paralyzed by confusion.
The air rushes into Mio's lungs in a sharp, painful sob as the pressure of the gun vanishes. He is lightheaded, his vision blurring for a second as the adrenaline begins to crash.
"You're right," Vane says, his voice dropping to a low, resonant hum. "The silence is deafening. And Sloane is a noise I can no longer tolerate."
He leans in even closer, the tattoos on his neck inches from Mio's face. "You want to talk about my empty life? Fine. Help me fill the vacancy." He pauses, the corner of his mouth twitching into a dark, predatory smile. "I'm offering a contract, boy. Ten million dollars. You become my bridegroom—my legal shield to divorce that arrogant bitch and secure my empire. You've already proven you can survive me. No one else has."
Mio's blue eyes widen, the pupils flickering with sheer, unadulterated shock as Vane's words sink in. Dante looks at Vane, then at the shivering boy on the floor, his brain struggling to process the shift from execution to a marriage proposal. Behind him, the other bodyguards exchange frantic, silent looks, their hands dropping from their holsters in a state of total disorientation.
Vane reaches out, his ringed fingers catching Mio's chin to force him to keep his head up. "What do you say, little bird? Do you want to go back to wiping glasses for pennies, or do you want to see if you can survive the monster's bed?"
The absurdity of it should make Mio laugh, but the cold weight of Vane's hand on his chin makes it very real. Mio's heart is still racing, but the fear is being overtaken by a dazed, frantic confusion. "A... bridegroom?" he echoes, his voice a shaky, disbelieving whisper. He looks at Vane's dark, predatory smile and realizes the man isn't joking. He's being hunted in a completely new way.
The coworker behind the bar, hearing the lack of a gunshot, slowly peeks over the counter. His mouth drops open as he catches the tail end of Vane's offer. The terror in the room has shifted into a thick, bizarre tension. The dancers, who were preparing for a bloodbath, now stand frozen in the shadows, their eyes darting between Vane and Mio as they realize the "nobody" bartender just became the most powerful—and most endangered—person in the city.