Mine

CHAPTER 1

"Fuck," Yoongi muttered under his breath, the word barely escaping his lips as a storm of thoughts raged in his mind. His patience had worn thin, frayed by the relentless demands of his life. The weight of everything pressing down on him was starting to show in the lines etched on his face, the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. Fury bubbled beneath the surface—no, it was more than fury. Anger didn't even begin to cover it. There was an overwhelming sense of frustration, a suffocating pressure that made him feel like he was constantly on the edge, teetering between control and chaos.

His enemies were growing bolder, sticking their noses into his business with a brazen frequency that made his blood boil. Every day brought a new challenge, a new threat that needed to be dealt with swiftly and ruthlessly. He had a mission to complete, a mission that couldn't afford any mistakes, and yet distractions were everywhere, lurking in every shadow, waiting to trip him up. His company demanded his attention too, with endless piles of files waiting for his approval, his signature the final stamp that kept his empire running smoothly. Each document represented a deal, a decision that could make or break his organization, and the responsibility weighed heavily on him.

But the biggest burden of all, the one that gnawed at him like a relentless predator, was the expectation that came with being the Mafia King: he needed a queen, a wife. The very thought made his stomach churn with disdain. A wife. What the hell was he supposed to do with a wife? The idea seemed absurd, laughable even. She would be nothing but a liability, a weakness that his enemies could exploit without hesitation. The notion of love, of romantic entanglement, was for fools who had the luxury of living without the constant threat of betrayal and violence hanging over their heads.

He didn't even know who the hell she would be, and frankly, he didn't care. She would just be another woman, like all the rest—weak, clueless about the harsh realities of his world, some spoiled daddy's princess who would drive him insane with her demands and her naivety. The mere thought of having to deal with someone like that made his head throb. He could already feel the headache forming, and he hated it. What if she got kidnapped one day? That thought alone was enough to send a cold wave of dread through him. She'd probably crumble at the first sign of danger, spill everything to the first thug who threatened her. She'd whine, she'd cry, and she'd betray all of his secrets without a second thought. Where he kept his weapons, the location of the secret rooms, everything would be out in the open, making him vulnerable in ways he couldn't afford.

No. He wasn't risking his—

"Ugh! This damn phone! Who the fuck is it now?" he growled, his irritation flaring as he reached for the vibrating device on his desk. The name flashing on the screen made him pause, his anger cooling slightly as a different kind of tension settled in.

"Dad..." He answered, his voice dropping into something almost resembling respect, a rare softness that only his parents ever heard.

"Hello?"

"Hi, how are you, my child?" The soft, familiar voice on the other end wasn't his father's but his mother's, her tone warm and affectionate, yet tinged with something that sent a shiver of unease down his spine.

"Mom? Why did you call me from Dad's phone?" he asked, trying to mask the anxiety creeping into his voice. His mother didn't call often, and when she did, it usually meant something serious.

"Oh, I couldn't find mine. But listen, we need to talk."

Those four words—"we need to talk"—made his heart skip a beat, a cold dread settling in his chest. Nothing good ever followed that phrase, especially not when it came from his mother. He couldn't shake the fear that she somehow knew what had happened last week—how he and his friends had gotten ridiculously drunk, and one of those idiots had broken her favorite vase, the one she had inherited from her grandmother. If she found out, she'd kill him. His friends would escape unscathed, of course, but he'd be the one facing her wrath, the one she'd chew out with a mixture of disappointment and anger that only a mother could wield.