Everything is a game, Boss~

*They arrived at his headquarters, a towering office building in the heart of the city. As he stepped out of the car, his thoughts were still consumed by her. He walked past his subordinates with a curt nod, his mind already working through a plan.*

*He knew it was irrational, stupid, irresponsible. He was a mafia boss, for Christ's sake. He had responsibilities, a business to run, a life built on violence and fear. And now he was thinking about a damn singer?*

*Alan stepped into his private office, slamming the door behind him with more force than necessary. He poured himself another whiskey—neat—and stared out the panoramic window overlooking the city. The singer’s voice echoed in his mind, taunting him.*

*He gritted his teeth and took a sharp swallow of the liquor, the burn doing nothing to distract him. This was ridiculous. He was Alan García—feared, untouchable, ruthless. And yet some woman with a smirk and a stolen lighter had him acting like some lovesick idiot.*

*His phone buzzed—finally, Chicago. He glanced at the message, then tossed the phone onto his desk with a growl. Business could wait. Right now, he had a score to settle.*

*He grabbed his coat and strode back out, barking orders at his men.* "Find out where she goes after her set. *Now.*"

*One of the bodyguards hesitated.* "Boss... is this wise?"

*Alan’s glare could’ve frozen lava.* "Do I *look* like I care about wise?"

*As he stormed out, the ghost of her smirk burned behind his eyelids. She wanted to play games? Fine. He’d show her exactly who she was dealing with.*

(*And if his pulse kicked up at the thought of seeing her again? Well. No one needed to know that, either.*)

*Alan entered the bar again, his eyes scanning the room. The singer was still on the stage, seemingly unfazed by the fact that a cold-hearted Mafia boss had just walked in. As he approached the bar, he could feel her gaze on him, and he knew she was aware of his presence. Her smirk widened as if saying 'Ah, you're back.'*

*Alan leaned back on the bar, trying to seem nonchalant, but his heart was racing. He had no idea what the hell he was doing here. Was he going to confront her? Scold her? Flirt?*

*He ordered another whiskey, neat, trying to focus on anything but the pounding in his chest. The bartender served him his drink before moving away, leaving him alone. Alan took a generous sip, the whiskey burning down his throat. He could feel her eyes still on him. He couldn't stand it—he had to look.*

*He turned his head, his gaze meeting hers. There was that damn smirk again. She had the audacity to look amused—and damn it, it made her even more attractive.*

*Alan set his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose. Enough. He was not going to sit here like some lovesick fool while she smirked at him from across the room. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he strode toward the stage with single-minded intensity.*

*The singer watched him approach, her eyebrow quirking slightly—but she didn’t stop singing. If anything, her voice grew richer, more deliberate, as if daring him closer.*

*Alan stopped just before the stage, his voice low and rough.*

"Give me back my lighter."

*She tilted her head, lips curling around the next lyric—singing it directly to him.*

*"...You play your final ace for a pretty face..."*

*His fingers twitched. He could *feel* his bodyguards watching from the bar, torn between amusement and alarm.*

*Alan leaned forward, bracing one hand on the edge of the stage. His voice dropped to a growl.*

"This isn’t a game."

*She finally paused, meeting his glare with a slow, deliberate drag of her cigarette—*his* cigarette, he realized belatedly—before blowing the smoke toward him.*

"Everything’s a game, *boss*." Her smirk sharpened. "You just don’t like losing."

*A beat of silence. Then—*

*Alan grabbed her wrist.*

*The bar went dead quiet. Even the band stopped playing. The singer didn’t flinch, just held his gaze with something like triumph.*

*He didn’t know who moved first. All he knew was that suddenly, his mouth was on hers—rough, punishing, *electric*—and she was kissing him back like she’d been waiting for it. The cigarette fell from her fingers, forgotten.*

*When he finally pulled away, her lips were slightly parted, her breathing uneven. Alan tightened his grip on her wrist, his voice raw.*

"You’re *trouble*."

*She laughed, breathless.* "Took you long enough to notice."

*Behind them, one of the bodyguards muttered:* "...We’re *all* gonna die."

*Alan didn’t care.*

*The bar continued to buzz with shocked whispers as Alan and the singer finally broke apart. She was still standing on the stage, looking just as unruffled as she had all evening, though her lips were more swollen than before. Alan could still feel the heat of her kiss. He didn't care that his men were watching, didn't care that they all had their jaws practically on the floor. All he cared about was the woman in front of him. The damn woman who had gotten under his skin from the moment she opened her smart mouth.*

*He took a step back, trying to regain his composure. His heart was pounding; he hadn't felt this way in...*

*No. He was being stupid. She was just a woman—a pretty, infuriating woman, but a woman all the same. He could control himself. He had to.*

*He cleared his throat, fixing her with a glare.*

"You and I need to talk. Alone."

*She arched a brow, stepping down from the stage with deliberate slowness. As she walked past him, her fingers brushed his arm—light as a spark—before she murmured,*

"My shift ends in twenty minutes. *Boss.*"

*Alan watched her go, his jaw tight. This was a mistake. She was a distraction, a liability, a goddamn *problem*—*

*—So why did he already know he’d be waiting?*

(*And why did the thought make his blood run hot?*)

**[Scene.]**

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