The devil in a suit

The balcony was quiet, but Amara's heartbeat wasn't.

She leaned against the railing, the city pulsing below, lights stretching for miles. Roman stood beside her, silent, his presence heavy—like gravity, pulling her closer whether she wanted it or not.

"You know what they say about me?" he asked, voice low.

Amara glanced at him. "That you're dangerous."

His lips twitched. "And do you believe it?"

"I'd be stupid not to."

Roman tilted his head slightly. "And yet, here you are."

She smirked, a little braver than she felt. "Curiosity doesn't equal stupidity. At least, not always."

He laughed quietly, and for a moment, he looked younger. Less like a mafia boss and more like a man who had once been a boy with too many expectations and too little freedom.

"I don't do this," he said suddenly.

"Do what?"

"This. Talk. Laugh. Let strangers see past the surface."

"Maybe I'm not a stranger," she said, surprising herself.

Roman looked at her, something unreadable in his eyes. "No, Miss Blake. I don't think you are."

A silence settled, softer now. Like they were both caught in something they didn't want to name.

She cleared her throat. "So what happens now? You send me back in with a warning? Or have your people wipe my name off some list?"

He didn't smile this time. "You think I'm that predictable?"

"I think you're used to getting what you want."

Roman stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He didn't touch her. Didn't have to.

"I am."

His voice was velvet and fire.

Amara's breath hitched.

But just before she could speak, the balcony door opened behind them. Roman's body stiffened, and a tall man in a gray suit stepped out.

"Apologies, boss," the man said, voice clipped. "There's a situation."

Roman's eyes darkened instantly. Cold. Controlled.

He turned back to Amara. "We'll finish this another time."

Before she could respond, he was gone—slipping through the door like a shadow. The man in the gray suit followed him, but not before giving Amara a long, curious look.

Back inside the ballroom, the music played on, clueless. She found Nia at the bar, eyes wide.

"Tell me everything," she whispered.

Amara picked up her drink, still cold in her hand.

"I don't even know where to start."

But in her chest, something had started already—a pull. A thread. A dangerous beginning wrapped in a tailored suit and a gaze she wouldn't forget.

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I am an upcoming writer who likes to share her passion for writing. I would really love you to share what you love about my story. And do you think I should complete the story. Your likes, views and comments give me motivation to create more stories like this. Also tell me what type of story I should write next. I will pick one persons comment