Bloody love

There are two kinds of legacies you inherit.
The ones written in blood, and the ones you run from.

My father tried to run.

He traded the gun for fabric, the blood for needle and thread. In a quiet boutique far from Brazil, he raised me with the illusion of safety, building a life out of silk and sketches instead of scars. To the world, he was just a tailor. To me, he was simply Dad.

But shadows never stay buried.

The past came knocking in the form of men who carried death in their eyes and violence in their veins. Clients who were more than they seemed. Men like Alex-Danzel's right hand, a soldier carved from steel and silence. The kind of man whose presence filled a room like gunpowder: dangerous, volatile, unforgettable.

I was supposed to measure his shoulders, sketch his suits, and keep my head down. But our worlds collided in the chaos of gunfire and betrayal, in whispered threats and stolen moments between shadows. He was blood and war; I was fabric and dreams. We never should have touched.

And yet, in a life stitched together with danger, it was Alex's eyes I found in every firestorm.

Because when the bullets rained and the dead were counted, he was always there. Not as my protector. Not as my captor. But as something far more dangerous.

The one man who could destroy me... or save me.