Ares ; A Mafia Romance ||✓

Chapter 10

[A/N - song for the chapter - bad habits by Ed Sheeran]

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Callista Miller

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My eyes were fixed on Ares, following his every action—how he expertly swirled the car with one hand while shooting at our attackers with the other. He looked magnificently enticing, a completely different person than the one I thought I knew. He was in his element, effortlessly switching into a form that made me wonder if he was always like this, and I had just failed to see it. The transition from the Ares I imagined or believed to be, to the Ares that people feared and dreaded, was so smooth and fine, like a cocoon turning into a beautiful butterfly. So natural yet divine. He was divine.

I was torn between admiring him as the force of reckoning he was, or cowering in fear because of the sudden attack. But, to my surprise, I wasn’t afraid. Amidst the continuous ringing of gunshots in the air filled with the smell of gunpowder, my body being tossed in every direction with each twist and turn of the car, I only stared at Ares, entranced by him. I couldn't help it. In his presence, I felt safe, as if nothing and no one could hurt me. My mind and body automatically relaxed, easing into the comfort of his proximity. He had that much effect on me without even trying.

Ares barely broke a sweat. With one hand tightly gripping the steering wheel, his veins bulging, he fired the gun with precision, occasionally reloading with his mouth or his free hand. His dark blue eyes were filled with satisfaction and mirth, the glint of joy unmistakable, as if I wasn’t looking at a killer, but a happy child on Christmas Eve. Ares was enjoying this. Now I could tell that. He looked relaxed and fearless, killing the people attacking us with such fluidity, like a ballet dancer immersed in their art. I was transfixed by his true self, which he carried out so gloriously. His face was full of concentration and calm. Not a single worry line crossed it. To even associate fear with him would be an insult. His facial muscles hardened around his jaw and furrowed between his brows in a sneer of satisfaction. He didn’t care about the lives lost; they were just proof of his inevitable victory, a testament to the victorious killer he was.

I never imagined myself seeing someone so engrossed in their work, doing it with such poise and grace, as if they were made for it. And Ares was overflowing with it. I was left shocked, gaping at him. I was seeing the mafia prince, the infamous Ares Delavega, the real Ares that everyone feared. Now, I could put a face to every rumor and fact I’d heard about his animosity and cruelty. But I didn’t dislike him because of it. Instead, I felt myself drawn to him even more. His eyes reflected joy, but not warmth. They lacked the warm glow I so desperately wanted to see. Instead, they were filled with darkness, as deep as endless black holes, ready to suck in anything that came near. And I was being sucked in. Willingly. I wanted so badly to see his eyes glow with the warmth of belonging, for the hatred in them to vanish, that my chest constricted—not in fear, but in pain. Pain at seeing him drown himself so deep in darkness that it seemed almost impossible to turn back. I wanted him to see the light within him. I didn’t know where these thoughts were coming from, but they were overwhelming me as I stared at him, his aura so strong that its waves swept me away.

Suddenly, I was flung forward as the car came to a screeching halt. Steadying myself from the jolt, I looked at Ares, who was clenching his jaw tightly. I didn’t have time to process the situation before Ares turned to me, his eyes ice-cold, filled with destruction. Blinking to clear the nervous haze, I heard him order in a bone-chilling voice that matched his hardened demeanor:

“Stay in the car.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I was flabbergasted by the evil hardness in his eyes. If that wasn’t enough, the screeching of several cars stopping and the sound of footsteps running on the road alarmed me. The attackers had surrounded us from both the back and front, leaving no way out. I chanced a glance out the window and realized we were on a high flyover, stuck in the middle. Either the attackers or we would come out alive—there was no middle ground. The clicking of guns and clanking of knives made that clear. Ares had only a single gun, with its last round of bullets. From a third-person perspective, we were on the losing side. But I believed in Ares. He wouldn’t let me die here. He just wouldn’t. And he certainly wouldn’t die here at the hands of attackers who thought they could catch him off guard. They must have thought they could kill him unarmed, which said a lot about them. They knew that killing Ares with weapons was suicidal. So they tried to corner him first. Judging from the footsteps, there were many of them.