Jojo was not a typical crime boss. Young, striking, and calculating, he ruled the underground with charm and an iron fist. But he had a weakness: beauty that burned with purpose. When he got the call that someone had taken out six of his men near the railway, he arrived in person.
Stepping out of a matte black car, dressed in a charcoal suit and with an air of command, he saw her - standing amidst the wreckage of his men, eyes fierce, breathing steady. Anika turned towards him, brushing a stray strand of hair off her face.
That moment hit Jojo like a bullet to the chest. Her defiance. Her grace. Her strength. Who is she?
He smirked, walking closer. "You've hurt my men," he said, voice low and smooth.
"They were hurting someone first," she replied, unaware of who he really was.
He extended his hand. "Jojo."
"Anika," she responded hesitantly, not shaking his hand.
Their eyes locked - electricity surged between them. The world paused for a breath.