anshiii_wrts
He ruled a world built on blood and silence.
A mafia king born to inherit violence, raised where mercy was a myth and power was the only truth that mattered.
Men feared him. Cities bent to his name. Death followed his decisions like a loyal shadow.
She moved like poetry in a world he had taught to bleed.
A ballet dancer-graceful, disciplined, devastating in her quiet strength. On stage, she was light and balance, precision and beauty. Every leap was freedom. Every spin was escape. The audience saw elegance.
He saw defiance.
Obsession did not strike him like madness.
It settled.
She was not fragile.
Cigarette smoke curled around him as he watched from the shadows, inhaling control, exhaling restraint.
He did not approach her. Kings did not rush. They waited.
They studied.
They claimed when the moment was inevitable.
She sensed him before she ever saw him.
Fear was unfamiliar to her, but her body reacted anyway-breath hitching, instincts screaming. She avoided his gaze, avoided the places where his presence weighed the air down.
She skipped gatherings. She made excuses. She chose distance like survival depended on it.
Because it did.
She feared no one else.
Only him.
He liked that.
Fear meant awareness. Awareness meant belonging.
He never touched her.
Never spoke too much.
Never crossed the line that would make others suspicious.
His control was quieter than violence. It lived in the certainty that she was already his-whether she accepted it or not.
She danced harder as if movement could save her. He watched closer as if restraint could last forever.
Fire and darkness, circling.
And when obsession finally demands its due, neither grace nor power will escape unscathed.
Because a mafia king does not let go of what he has chosen.
And a dancer born for freedom will never kneel without a fight.
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