𝐌𝐀𝐅𝐈𝐀'𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 | 𝐉𝐉𝐊

58

Jungkook left with an army of men.

He left me here, safe with a group of guards at the gate and Eunwoo to keep me company.

My nerves are frayed. I could feel my heart racing as he walked away.

I longed to plead with him, to make him promise that he would return tome.

Promise that we would take countless vacations together, read endless books side by side, and make a family of giant babies.

But I swallowed back the words and instead pressed my lips against his, silently conveying my love and trust as I watched him leave.

Eunwoo distracts me with stories and jokes about his family in Chicago. 

We sit in the library, and I continue my painting for Jungkook.

I paint with hope—hope that when he comes home, I can gift it to him. 

I just have to keep positive thoughts.

Jungkook will come home.

"That's how I ended up here," Eunwoo says, and I realize I haven't been paying attention.

Guilt prickles at me, but I smile politely and decide to ask questions—anything to keep my mind occupied.

"Will you be a Capo someday, then?" I ask, continuing to paint.

A drop of red splatters onto my shirt, blending into the fabric. I now regret wearing a white sweater over my leggings.

"I won't. I'm the third son—not the heir or the spare," he chuckles. "It's why I was easy to send away."

"Would you rather be in Chicago?"

"Honestly, no. I like it here. Plus, I have Mia."

"Wait, you and Mia are—"

The deafening crack of gunfire erupts outside, shattering the fragile peace of the mansion.

I whip my head toward the windows, my breath catching as three cars barrel onto the property.

Jungkook's guards open fire, bullets flashing in the night.

Eunwoo jumps to his feet beside me, every trace of humor gone.

"Y/n, we have to get you somewhere safe," he says, snapping me from my frozen panic.

He grips my arm, dragging me down the stairs to the master bedroom. 

We burst inside, and he slams the door shut, locking it behind us.

"Eunwoo, we need to call Jungkook, or Jimin, or Yeonjun," I gasp out in a panic.

"Y/n, calm down," he urges, his voice low and sharp, but laced with urgency.