Under the Mafia's Touch (MxM)

A gunshot split the night outside Velvet Mirage, the crack echoing over the bass that shook the club’s grimy floor.

Inside, Noah Brant danced like a trapped spark, lean muscles flexing under neon slashes of blue and red. At twenty-four, he stood five-foot-ten, dark hair clinging to his brow, hazel eyes scanning the River North throng for stray bills.

A leather harness hugged his frame, concealing a winged tattoo etched across his ribs is a jagged mark from foster care’s cruel years.

The air reeked of sour beer and faded hopes, the club’s glitter a flimsy veil over its rotten core. He moved for Eli, his two-year-old son, whose daycare bills towered like a wall in their Gold Coast flat—cracked plaster, a threadbare rug, toy trucks scattered like forgotten battles.

Noah’s cash ran thin, his past a weight of quick glances at boys in alley shadows, a longing he smothered with sarcasm.

“Work it, pretty face!” a suit in a wrinkled shirt shouted, tossing a crumpled dollar.

“Only if you can match the moves, slick!” Noah fired back, a smirk hiding the strain.

“More, you’re a legend!” a voice boomed from the back.

“Legend doesn't pay the bills, friend!” he quipped, spinning with a flourish.

The crowd melted into a sea of greedy stares—bankers, thugs, all ravenous. Riley slouched at the bar, red hair a vivid streak, freckles speckling her skin like dirt on glass. She sipped her drink, piercing flashing in the light.

“You’re killing it up there!” she called to Noah, voice bright.

“Barely holding on for Eli,” Noah replied back, swiping sweat. “Daycare’s robbing me blind.”

“Harsh deal. Need a break?”

“Nah, gotta keep the kid’s plate full. You know the grind.”

He twirled, hips swaying, the stage his arena. Chicago’s dark underbelly growled outside, rumors of Caleb Warrick’s savage hits, Dominic Voss lording over a Streeterville penthouse of steel and wealth.

Noah dodged that life, but its icy touch grazed his neck. The music swelled, his body a rhythm of defiance, each step a bid for survival.

A drunk whistled, waving cash, and Noah leaned in, fingers grazing the damp bill, the man’s stale breath brushing his knuckles.

“Nice twist, kid!” the drunk slurred.

“Save your breath, pal,” Noah snapped, pocketing it quickly.

The set ended, applause dying like a hollow promise. He snatched his jacket leather groaning, and stepped into the storm outside.

Rain hammered River North, stripping its shine, leaving wet streets aglow with neon. His boots splashed through puddles, the city’s pulse a low snarl.

A groan pierced the downpour. Noah halted, chest tight. In an alley, a man slumped against brick, blood streaking his broad chest, coat ripped to rags.

At fifty-two, Dominic Voss dominated the space, six-foot-two, salt-and-pepper hair plastered to a scarred cheek. Gray eyes met Noah’s, fierce through the pain, a blend of command and desperation that stirred something deep.

The air thickened, danger and a pull he couldn’t name weaving tight.

“Are you lost or just bleeding dry?” Noah asked, stepping near, rain soaking his shirt against his skin.

“Help me… don’t leave me,” Dominic rasped, voice rough as gravel.

“Perfect, a stray. Fine, but you’re settling the score,” Noah said, gripping his arm.

Muscles burned as he raised Dominic up, the man’s solid bulk pressing close, a warm shock cutting the cold. They lurched toward Gold Coast, rain drumming their backs, a secret kindling in the wet dark.

The apartment door creaked open, Eli’s soft snores a fragile thread. Noah eased Dominic onto the sagging couch, fingers brushing his chest, a tingle racing up his arm.

Those gray eyes tracked him, intense, unlocking a hunger he’d buried in foster care. He snatched a rag from the counter, water dripping onto the linoleum, heart thumping.

“Stay put, big guy,” he muttered, tossing it over.

“Grateful,” Dominic murmured, a faint smirk tugging his lips.

Noah’s breath hitched, the touch lingering, a whisper of desire breaking free. He stepped back, rain battering the window, drowning the world outside.

The room shrank, tension coiling like wire. He glanced at Eli’s crib, toys glinting in the gloom, a reminder of his fight. Dominic shifted, wincing, his coat falling open to reveal a muscled torso, scars mapping a life of power. Noah’s gaze lingered, heat creeping up his neck.

“You a fighter or just clumsy?” he asked, leaning against the wall.

“Bit of both, I’d say,” Dominic replied, voice low. “Life’s a scrap.”

“Figures. Hope you’re worth the mess.”

“Time’ll prove it, darling.”

The words hung, a thread pulling taut. Noah rubbed his hands, damp cold seeping in, his mind drifting to those glances at the alley, boys in the dark, a life he couldn’t grasp.

Dominic’s presence loomed, a mix of threat and draw. He moved to the kitchen, grabbing a glass, the clink sharp in the silence. Water splashed as he filled it, offering it with a nod.

“Drink. You look half-dead,” he said.

“Thoughtful of you,” Dominic took it, fingers brushing Noah’s, a jolt sparking again.

“Don’t get cozy with it.”

He turned, the touch echoing, warmth spreading despite the storm. The flat groaned, walls holding tales of struggle. Eli stirred, a soft cry, and Noah’s heart squeezed, his anchor, his battle. Dominic watched, gray eyes softening, a silent link forming. He set the glass down, the clatter loud, and paced to the window. Rain streaked the glass, the city a blur of danger.

“You got enemies out there?” he asked, peering into the night.

“More than you’d count,” Dominic admitted, sipping slowly.

“Great. I’m stuck with a target.”

“Could be your luck.”

Noah chuckled dryly, the sound brittle. He rubbed his jaw, stubble rough under his fingers, the weight of Eli’s future pressing down.

Dominic’s hand rested on the couch, scars catching the light, a map of survival. Noah’s pulse quickened, the room growing smaller, their breaths mingling in the damp air.

“Rest up,” he said, stepping away.

“Only if you stay close,” Dominic murmured, eyes steady.

“Dream on, big shot.”

He moved to check Eli, the crib creaking under his touch, a toy truck rolling to the floor. The rain pounded harder, a drum of urgency. Dominic’s gaze followed, a quiet intensity building. Noah’s hands trembled, the past and present colliding, foster care’s shame, this man’s pull.

A shadow slid past the window, eyes glowing through the rain.