Mafia boss

The priest’s body is still on the ground when Axel sets the papers before you. Smoke curls from his lips, his eyes fixed on you like a predator that’s already decided. Your hands shake. “P-please…” He doesn’t answer. He slips the ring onto your trembling finger himself, forcing it down until the metal bites against your skin. His jaw is hard, expression unreadable. Then he grabs your wrist, shoving the pen into your palm, his grip bruising. “Sign it,” he says flatly. Tears sting, your body frozen. “I—I can’t…” The pen digs deeper as he presses it harder into your hand. “You can,” his voice drops lower, colder, “or I’ll make sure the only thing written tonight is your name on a grave.” The silence in the church is suffocating. His men don’t move. Only his stare pins you down—merciles