The man was just an arm's length away. Now that he was standing at his
full height, it was even more obvious how tall he was—probably brushing
190 centimeters. Broad shoulders and a solid frame gave him the
appearance of some kind of mixed-race athlete. Under the clearer light, his
smoky gray eyes were even more striking, almost hypnotic. His strong jaw,
slightly shadowed with three-day stubble, added to his intimidating aura.
Sure, he was handsome—there was no denying that—but the dangerous
vibe he radiated completely overshadowed any attraction. It wasn't the kind
of look that made you swoon; it was the kind that made you want to run for
your life.
"You're not going to open that with your hand like that," the man said in a
calm, matter-of-fact tone, extending an expectant hand.
Peach blinked, confused. His guard was still up, but after a moment of
hesitation, he handed over the water bottle.
More than anything, he felt a strange sense of familiarity with the man in
front of him, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't place him.
"Thanks," Peach murmured as the guy easily twisted the cap off and handed
the open bottle back. Peach stepped aside to make sure the water wouldn't
splash on anyone, then tilted it to pour over his wound, letting it wash away
the blood.
"That's what you get for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong," the
man commented, his deep voice carrying a hint of reproach.
Peach paused for a second, the water slowing to a trickle. Then he gave a
faint smile and resumed cleaning his wound, his voice light and easy as he
responded.
"Yeah, you're right. It's none of my business. But what can I say? I couldn't
just leave that kid like that. If there's something I can do to help, I probably
will." He shrugged and grabbed some tissues to gently dry his arm. The
wound wasn't too bad, just a scratch—nothing deep—but he'd definitely
need a tetanus shot.
"Do you ever think that helping others might get you into trouble?" The tall,
broad-shouldered man crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes in clear
disapproval.
"I'm always in trouble, so yeah, I'm used to it." Peach chuckled softly,
pausing briefly before adding in a resigned tone, "But seriously, could you
not try to hit on the kid? I'd rather not deal with him struggling with his…
situation or whatever. Every time there's drama, I'm the one who gets
caught in the middle."
The other man's expression hardened instantly. His already intimidating
face darkened further, and his tone, laced with barely contained anger, came
out sharp.
"There is nothing I want that I cannot have."
The weight of his words hung in the air for a tense moment before Peach
suddenly burst into uncontrollable laughter. He tried to stifle it, but that
only made him choke, coughing and laughing at the same time. Eventually,
he managed to pull himself together, though the other man's glare only
grew darker by the second.
"Sorry, sorry," Peach said, raising a hand in mock surrender, his voice still
trembling with amusement. "I didn't mean to laugh; it just caught me off
guard. Who even says stuff like that in real life? It's so… over-the-top.
Bossy and completely tyrannical."
The man's scowl deepened, and the growing irritation on his face quickly
made Peach lift both hands in an apologetic gesture, his wide grin fading
into something more sheepish. Damn my big mouth, he cursed internally.
"If you really like Ran, why not just approach him properly?" Peach
suggested, trying to shift the mood and divert any impending wrath. "I mean, those two aren't officially a couple yet, right? Aran is still single. If
you just make a move like a normal person, it might work."
The scowl didn't budge. If anything, the guy looked even more annoyed,
his jaw tightening as he eyed Peach with disdain.
"Why should I waste my time with something like that?" the man replied,
crossing his arms even tighter, his entire stance practically screaming mafia
boss energy. His piercing gaze held a hint of contempt, as if the idea of
following the rules was beneath him.
Looking at him now, this guy wouldn't be out of place in one of those
alpha-male romance novels—the "mafia grab-and-kiss" type. Yeah, this guy
checked all the trope boxes.
Peach nodded to himself a couple of times. Yeah, he'd read this kind of
novel before. The hero in these stories was always the same—aggressive,
loud, dominant to the point of being controlling, and maybe a little
unhinged.
Honestly? This guy was hitting all the right notes.
"Control your emotions, man. Who in their right mind enjoys being bossed
around or pressured? Unless, of course, they're into masochism." Peach
shook his head, casually leaning against the side of his small car. The way this conversation was going, it was going to take way longer than he had
planned.
He still had work to finish tonight, but clearly, that wasn't happening
anymore.
"It's just a one-night stand. Why make such a big deal out of it?"
"Even if it's just a one-night thing, sex should be about mutual satisfaction.
It's about enjoying the moment together, not one person taking what they
want while the other just goes along with it—or worse, using it as some
kind of bargaining chip. Where's the fun in that?" Peach's tone was serious
now, his expression as sincere as he could manage.
To him, sex was something that should happen between two consenting,
willing parties. The idea of forcing someone, pressuring them, or even
throwing money around to get his way—it all made his skin crawl.
"It's just sex," the wannabe mafioso muttered, though he sounded a little
less fiery this time. Still dismissive, sure, but quieter.
"Have you ever actually tried it?" Peach shot back, raising an eyebrow.
"Sex where both people are into it, both having fun, not just rushing to get it
over with. I'd bet it feels way better."
He sounded like an expert, but the truth was his experience was almost
laughably minimal.
He'd had three relationships, none of which had ended well. Sure, he'd had
a couple of one-night stands in his day, but that felt like a lifetime ago.
These days, he was too busy to even think about hooking up.
Mr. Mafia's face went blank as he sank into deep thought, his dark brows
furrowed as if trying to solve an impossibly complex puzzle. Peach could
only stand there, waiting. He couldn't help but let out a soft yawn.
He had been running on fumes for days, pulling all-nighters and working
non-stop. Today had started with a morning photoshoot and had dragged on
until… well, now.
Peach wanted to tell Mr. Mafia to go home and think things over there.
He'd also like to go home, honestly—he was about to pass out from sheer
exhaustion.
"Give me your phone."
Peach, who was on the verge of dozing off where he stood, snapped back to
attention. He blinked at the outstretched hand, confused about how their
conversation had somehow turned to his phone. When the guy repeated the order, his deep, authoritative tone brooked no argument. Peach sighed and
pulled out his phone, unlocking it without protest.
What could he say? The guy was at least twice his size, had two bodyguards
flanking him, and—oh yeah—both of them were armed. Whatever this
mafia-type guy was planning, he definitely wasn't trying to steal an old,
beat-up phone like his.
Peach stood there, watching as the man fiddled with his phone. Those
smoky gray eyes held a strange familiarity, a feeling tugging at the edges of
Peach's mind, refusing to fade. It only grew stronger with each passing
second. When his phone was handed back to him, Peach took it
absentmindedly, his exhaustion mixing with that nagging sense of
recognition. Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.
"You look a lot like someone. Have we met before?"
Mr. Mafia froze, a flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps—
flashing in those gray eyes before it vanished behind a wry smile.
"That's the dumbest pickup line I've ever heard. What, have you been
watching too many soap operas?"
Peach blinked a couple of times, then burst into laughter—the kind that left
him doubled over, wiping tears from his eyes. His genuine amusement instantly wiped the smile off the other man's face, replacing it with a
confused frown.
"Sorry, sorry," Peach said quickly, trying to compose himself before things
got tense.
The last thing he needed was for Mr. Mafia to get offended and start waving
his gun around.
"I wasn't laughing at you, it's just that, man, that was so over-the-top. I
swear I wasn't trying to flirt with you or anything. Promise." He finally
managed to control his laughter, though the grin stubbornly remained on his
face.
"I asked because you really do look familiar. I feel like I've seen you
somewhere before—maybe in a magazine? Your eyes, that smoky gray
color… they're really striking. I guess they just stuck in my head."
Mr. Mafia's frown eased, the sharpness in his gaze softening as if he was
lost in thought. Peach stood there, waiting. He wanted to beg for permission
to go home and sleep, but he was too afraid that he might end up sleeping
permanently.
Not an option. He still had a ton of work waiting for him.
"I'll think about it," the mafia man finally said, then turned and walked
away, his men following behind him. Peach didn't release the breath he'd
been holding until they were completely out of sight. Relief hit him so hard
it felt like a mountain had been lifted off his chest.
The entire time they had been talking, he'd been terrified of ending up dead.
But between his usual personality, the lingering buzz of alcohol in his
system, and extreme exhaustion, he had somehow managed to act braver
than he really was.
At least he hadn't done anything too reckless.
That was what he told himself as he got into his car and headed back to his
condo. Right now, all he could think about was his soft bed and the sweet,
icy embrace of the air conditioning.
......
Theerakit Kian Arseny was a businessman in his early thirties who was
currently making waves in the public eye—not just for Arseny, his highly
popular perfume and jewelry brand, but also thanks to his striking looks and
ever-changing list of celebrity girlfriends.
But few people knew the truth about the Arseny family. The perfume and jewelry business wasn't their first venture. The name Arseny had been a big
deal in the black market for years as one of Russia's largest arms suppliers.
They didn't just trade weapons—they invested heavily in research and
development, driving new technologies forward.
What began as an arms trafficking business expanded into the tech world,
and now, with the eldest Arseny son at the helm, they had a legitimate
luxury goods brand. On the surface, it was just a front, but the massive
profits exceeded expectations, making it one of the crown jewels of the
Arseny empire.
With everything in his favor—power, wealth, influence—it was no surprise
that the man often called "the mafia boss" rarely encountered something he
wanted but couldn't have.
He tapped his fingers slowly, rhythmically, against the desk, leaving the
document on the screen unsigned.
For the first time, he couldn't focus on work. His mind was tangled with
thoughts he couldn't shake, no matter how hard he tried.
That fiery little model had caught his attention—those large, expressive
eyes, flushed cheeks, and that smart mouth. There was a challenge in his
demeanor, almost provocative, wrapped in a small body that seemed so easy
to overpower.
He had to admit—he was intrigued.
He couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to have that stubborn
little thing trapped beneath him, writhing and giving in to his control.
When he wanted something, he got it. And the more someone resisted, the
more satisfying it was to claim them.
But… something was strange. The image of that model lingered in his
mind, refusing to fade. And yet, oddly enough, another thought had started
creeping in—a warm, steady voice, calm and constant like a gentle stream.
Just a few words, accompanied by a bright, genuine laugh, had managed to
extinguish his boiling temper in an instant.
The one who had laughed at him, who had told him off so casually, and had
stood his ground without angering him. If anything, the man's unshakable
yet disarming attitude had made him yield.
No one else had ever spoken to him like that and lived to tell the tale.
Yet here this photographer was—very much alive and in one piece.
At first glance, he wasn't even that remarkable. He wasn't dazzlingly
handsome, nor someone you couldn't take your eyes off. And yet… being
near him had been oddly calming.
"Sir, here are the background reports you requested."
His assistant stepped forward, placing two files on the desk. Each had a
name written clearly on the cover.
Thee hesitated.
Honestly, he'd been questioning himself ever since last night, when he had
ordered the background checks. His intention had been to investigate the
model's history.
But somehow, he had also told them to look into the photographer.
Even now, a part of him wondered what the hell he wanted with the
photographer's file.
And yet, when his hand moved, it skipped over the model's file—the one he
had been so sure he wanted—and picked up the photographer's instead.
The other file remained untouched on the desk.
Thee pursed his lips slightly as he flipped through the pages.
The photographer's record was frustratingly clean. No scandals, no hidden
secrets. Just a simple life.
As the eldest in his family, his parents' names weren't even listed in the
report.
The mafia boss's gaze lingered briefly on the section listing favorite foods.
Then, as if making a decision, he grabbed his phone, searched for the
number he had saved last night, and called without hesitation.
The line had barely rung before the other person picked up.
The sleepy voice that answered made him glance at the clock.
Nearly 10 a.m., wasn't it?
"I'll be downstairs in an hour. I'm picking you up," he said, short and direct,
purely out of habit.
The person on the other end, however, clearly wasn't used to such abrupt
commands.
["Picking me up? Going where? Wait, who is this?"]
"For breakfast," Thee clarified, though he only explained as much as he felt
like.
It annoyed him a little that the other person didn't immediately remember
who he was, but he let it slide. Given the groggy tone of the guy's voice, his
brain probably wasn't fully functioning yet.
Oddly enough, instead of irritation, he found the confusion and sleepiness
in his voice… amusing.
The other person still sounded puzzled, but Thee didn't give him a chance
to ask more questions. He hung up and turned back to the documents on his
desk.
The paperwork, which had seemed irritating before, now felt a little less
bothersome.
In fact, he could actually focus on it.
Perhaps the photographer's suggestion to take it easy and "start with
flirting" wasn't such a bad idea after all.
He would start with a little reconnaissance—gather some intel on the pretty-
faced model.
The two seemed close enough that he would probably discover something
useful.
Thee was in noticeably better spirits, though he himself didn't realize it.
Meanwhile, his secretary and the nearby bodyguards exchanged silent,
uneasy glances.
Questions filled their minds, but no one dared voice a single one.
No one was stupid enough to risk provoking their boss and triggering one of
his infamous outbursts.
If that happened, there wouldn't be anyone left standing to calm the storm.