Mixed blood

Chapter one : Feelings

William stood tall in front of the vast glass window of his office, his piercing gaze fixed on the city below. The streets were alive with movement—people rushing to work, cars honking impatiently, life unfolding beneath him. They were all oblivious to the power that loomed over them.

The sunlight cast sharp angles on his chiseled features, but it did nothing to soften them. Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, he exuded authority—a man who commanded respect, not with words, but with his mere presence. His reputation was built on blood, and he carried it without remorse.

He checked his watch, his patience wearing thin.

"Will, they're here and waiting for your permission to enter," Amara's voice cut through the silence.

He turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "Let them in. And you—stay."

"Of course." She smiled, but he didn't return it. He rarely did.

Her presence lingered a moment longer, and for reasons he refused to acknowledge, it unsettled him. She had always been different—clever, fearless, dangerously close to something he couldn't afford to feel.

Before she could leave, he spoke again, his voice sharp. "My father wants me to marry a daughter of another mafia."

Amara arched a brow, interest flickering in her eyes. "Marrying a mafia daughter? That could be a privilege. Think of the power, the protection, the financial benefits..."

He almost scoffed. Her innocent enthusiasm contrasted with the storm inside him.

"That's not how I see it."

She tilted her head, searching his face. "Then how do you see it?"

He hesitated. For a man who never faltered, that single moment of doubt irritated him. He was used to making others uncertain, not the other way around.

Finally, he exhaled. "I don't know if I can do this."

"The mafia's future is the only thing that matters," she reminded him, her voice serious now.

That was the problem. He had spent his life carving out his own place in this world, becoming the monster they needed him to be. But now, his father demanded he sacrifice his autonomy for the sake of an alliance.

Her next words, however, took him off guard.

"Don't worry—maybe you won't have to marry her."

She winked playfully before turning to call in the men.

His eyes narrowed. What did she mean?

But there was no time to dwell on it.

The heavy sound of footsteps filled the hallway, and William turned toward the door. His men had arrived. It was time for war.

Inside the dimly lit conference room, the atmosphere was charged with violence waiting to be unleashed. His top assassins and commanders sat in silence, their loyalty unquestionable, their hands stained with the blood of his enemies.

William leaned forward, his gaze sweeping across the table like a predator surveying his pack.

"This assassin has cost us too much," he began, his voice calm—too calm. "We need to eliminate this threat. Permanently."

His men listened intently, knowing their leader did not tolerate failure.

Then, Amara spoke.

"Hmm, I might have an idea."

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to her, but William's gaze was different—cold, assessing, nearly cruel.

"Go ahead." His tone was devoid of warmth, as if daring her to say something foolish.

She met his stare without flinching. "We could set a trap with a false weapons shipment—traceable. Once the assassin takes the bait, our team will be in position to move in."

"Brilliant!" Diego, his right-hand man, exclaimed. "This could work!"

Amara flushed slightly at the praise, but William remained motionless. His expression unreadable.

She was clever. Too clever.

That was the problem.

He watched her closely, his mind already calculating a dozen scenarios—how she could betray him, how she could be used against him, how she could ruin him.

But most of all, he hated the way she made him feel.

"Good idea," he finally said, his voice carrying no praise—just acknowledgment. "But we don't underestimate him. This assassin has already cost us one of our best men."

"Agreed," Amara replied, unfazed by his cold reception. "We should hire additional reinforcements."

William nodded. "We also set up extra surveillance. Our top man will lead the operation—we need someone experienced."

The next day, the plan was set into motion. Every detail was executed with precision, every piece moved like chess pieces in a deadly game.

But amidst it all, William couldn't shake the thought of Amara.

She was always there—too close, too sharp, too dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with bullets or blood.

He was a man who ruled with an iron fist, who killed without hesitation.

Yet with her... something felt different. And he hated that.

Because in his world, feelings were a weakness.

And weakness got you killed.