Burnt Sugar

Dante's hands were stained-both in ink and in blood. The ink from signed contracts that never saw daylight, the blood from men who made the mistake of saying "no." He didn't question the orders. He didn't flinch when pulling the trigger. Emotion had no place in his line of work. That's what made him valuable.

Until Ethan.

He'd only stepped into that café to avoid the rain, seeking nothing more than a dry seat and bitter coffee. But then he saw him-behind the counter, flour-dusted and frowning at a crooked stack of croissants. Too delicate for this world, too pure for someone like Dante.

And yet, something about the way Ethan looked at him-not with fear, but curiosity-was enough to make Dante hesitate. And hesitation, in his world, was dangerous.