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For Krisdnai Rome Lee, love was never a soft thing.
It was a calculated endurance. It was the white knuckle grip on a steering wheel, the silent monitoring of a GPS coordinate and the patient, predatory wait for a man who moved like a ghost.
For eighteen months, Rome had lived on scraps.
He knew Mok checked his schedules. He knew because a certain guard in Hong Kong—one of his own—was a little too loose lipped after two drinks, and because Mok’s fingerprints were all over the digital logs of the Lee family’s movements. Rome had played the part of the oblivious king, leaning back in his leather chair, a smirk playing on his lips as he realized Mok was still watching him.
It was their secret language.
I am here. I am safe. I am yours.
But then, the feed went dead.
The silence didn't happen all at once. It was a gradual fading. A missed check in here, a week without a ping there. Rome initially chalked it up to the chaos of the family. He knew Thee was currently embroiled in the dramatic, agonizingly slow pursuit of Peach.
"My brother is a fool for love," Rome had muttered to his reflection while straightening his silk tie. "And Mok is likely the one cleaning up the mess."
But the weeks turned into a month. Then two. The silence became a physical weight, pressing against Rome’s chest until he couldn't breathe.
In a dimly lit, smoke heavy underground club in the heart of Bangkok’s red ight district, Mok wasn't "Mok" anymore.
He was 'Sane', a drifter with a cold gaze and a heavy wallet. Mr. Lee had been clear: Theerakit is being hunted. The shooter is a phantom. Find him. Erase him. No one—not even the brothers—can know.
Mok sat at a corner booth, the neon pink light reflecting off the amber liquid in his glass. A girl leaned into his space, her perfume cloying and sweet. She draped an arm over his shoulder, whispering something meant to be seductive.
Mok’s expression didn't flicker. His eyes remained locked on the VIP mezzanine where his target was supposed to appear. He felt nothing for the woman beside him; his heart was a vault, locked tight and buried somewhere in Hong Kong. He allowed the contact only because it was the perfect camouflage.
To the world, he was just another man losing himself in the night. To himself, he was a weapon on a hair trigger.
What he didn't see was the flash of a phone camera from the shadows—a rival looking for leverage, or perhaps just a bored socialite.
The photo arrived on Rome’s desk at 3:00 AM.
It was grainy, but unmistakable. Mok. In a club. With a woman’s lips hovering near his ear.
Rome didn’t scream. He didn’t throw things. He simply looked at the image until the blue light of the screen burned into his retinas. The waiting part of his definition of love had just been incinerated. The fighting part was taking over.
"He stopped watching me," Rome whispered into the empty office. "Because he found something else to watch."
The next morning, Hong Kong woke up to a massacre.
The transition from a businessman to a butcher was terrifyingly seamless for Rome. He didn't use a silencer. He didn't hide in the shadows. He wanted the world to hear him.
By the second night of Mok’s silence, the docks of Victoria Harbour were slick with more than just sea spray. Rome moved through a rival syndicate’s warehouse like a wraith. His movements were fluid, fueled by a toxic cocktail of betrayal and possessive rage. He wasn't just killing enemies; he was sending a signal flare that could be seen from space.
"Where is the shipment?" a rival lieutenant gasped, clutching a shattered shoulder as Rome stepped into the light of a flickering bulb.
Rome didn't answer. He didn't care about shipments. He leaned down, his face splattered with a dark crimson that made his pale skin look ghostly.
"You're in my way" he whispered.
He pulled the trigger.
By dawn, the headlines in Hong Kong were screaming. "Blood Bath in the Triad: The Youngest Lee Heir Unleashed." The news wasn't just local; it was a geopolitical tremor.
Rome was purposely dismantling the delicate peace treaties his father had spent decades building. He was making himself a target, daring anyone—especially a certain ghost in Bangkok—to come and stop him.
The Lee manor in Bangkok was a fortress of silence, until the television in the dining hall flickered with the morning news.
Thee sat at the head of the table, his hand resting over Peach’s. They were supposed to be discussing wedding flowers, but Peach’s eyes were wide, fixed on the screen showing a blurred image of Rome walking away from a burning building in Hong Kong.
"Is that... is that Rome?" Peach asked, his voice trembling.
Thee’s grip tightened on his fork until the silver bent. "He’s lost it. He’s actually lost his mind."
In the corner of the room, standing like a statue, Mok felt his world tilt. His eyes were locked on the screen. He saw the coldness in Rome’s gait, the way he held his weapon. He knew that look. That wasn't a man at war with an enemy; that was a man at war with himself.
He saw the photo, Mok realized, a cold sweat breaking out under his suit jacket. He thinks I’ve abandoned him.
"Mok!" Thee shouted, snapping him out of his trance. "Why haven't our contacts in Hong Kong flagged this? Why is Rome acting like a rogue agent?"
Mok’s voice was a graveyard rasp. "He’s not rogue, Khun Thee. He’s calling for someone."
"Well, he’s going to get us all killed!" Thee slammed his hand on the table, startling Peach. "If Rome triggers the triads there, the alliances here will crumble. The enemies will see us as unstable. We’ll be hunted in our own home."
Peach looked at Mok, his eyes pleading. "Can you stop him? Mok, please. He’s your— I mean, he will listen to you."
Mok looked at Peach, then at the flickering image of the man he loved burning down a city just to get his attention. The secret mission the father gave him—to protect Therakit—suddenly felt small compared to the catastrophe Rome was inviting.
The dinner was interrupted by the heavy footsteps of the Lee Patriarch. The Old Man entered, his cane clicking rhythmically against the marble. He looked at Mok, his eyes narrowed.
"The shooter is dead," the Old Man announced, ignoring his older son. "Mok finished the job an hour ago."
Thee looked confused. "What shooter? Father..What is going on?"
But Mok wasn't listening to Thee. He stepped toward the Patriarch, abandoning his post for the first time in his life. "The mission is over, sir. I need to go to Hong Kong."
"You will stay here." the Old Man commanded.
"Rome has created a vacuum. Our enemies will strike here thinking we are distracted by his tantrum. You are needed to guard this house."
"It’s not a tantrum," Mok said, his voice rising, a dangerous edge appearing that even Thee had never heard. "It’s a suicide note. He’s inviting them to kill him because he thinks he has nothing left to wait for."
The room went cold. Peach looked between them, realizing for the first time that the bond between the guard and the younger brother wasn't just loyalty—it was an obsession that could level cities.
Mok didn't wait for permission. He turned on his heel, his hand already reaching for his burner phone to track the one person he had spent months trying to forget.
Hong Kong breathed smoke and iron. The air in the Kowloon district was thick with the scent of spent gunpowder and rain.
Rome sat in the center of an abandoned shipping warehouse, perched on a crate like a king on a throne of debris. A single lightbulb swung above him, casting long, rhythmic shadows across the floor.
He was cleaning blood off his knuckles with a silk handkerchief when the heavy iron doors groaned open.
Rome didn’t reach for his gun. He didn't have to. He knew the heavy, steady cadence of those footsteps. He’d memorized them in his dreams for a year and a half.
"You’re late," Rome said, his voice deceptively smooth. He didn't look up. "I thought you were busy. In Bangkok. With... company."
Mok stepped into the circle of light. He looked haggard, his tactical gear stained with the grime of a frantic flight and a forced entry. His chest heaved as he took in the sight of Rome—safe, but covered in the evidence of a massacre.
"Rome," Mok breathed, the name a prayer and a curse. "Stop this. Now. You’ve killed half the mid level bosses in the city. You’ve put a target on your head that can be seen from the mainland."
Rome finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, shimmering with a manic intensity that made Mok flinch. "I was bored, Mok. You stopped watching the cameras. You stopped checking my logs. Rome had to give you something worth looking at."
Mok surged forward, grabbing Rome by the lapels of his ruined suit and slamming him back against the crates. The hollow thud echoed through the vast warehouse.
"You think this is a game?" Mok roared, his composure finally shattering. "I was on a mission for your father! I was protecting Theerakit! I couldn't check the logs! I couldn't risk them tracing me back to you!"
Rome laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. He shoved Mok back, his strength fueled by months of repressed longing and the sting of that photograph.
"Protecting Theerakit? Is that what they call it now? Grinding against some girl in a neon lit basement while I’m over here counting the seconds until I can see your name on a digital screen?"
Rome pulled his phone out and threw it at Mok’s chest. "Explain the photo, Mok. Explain why you looked so comfortable while I was rotting."
Mok caught the phone, his eyes scanning the grainy image of the girl at the club. A wave of realization washed over him—the sheer, pathetic misunderstanding of it all.
"She was a distraction," Mok said, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating growl. "I was tracking a shooter. She was part of the cover. I didn't even know her name, Rome. I didn't even see her face. I was looking at the target. I was looking for a way to finish the job so I could come back to you."
"Liar." Rome spat, though his voice wavered.
"I have never lied to you about what I feel," Mok stepped back into Rome’s space, pressing his forehead against Rome’s, forcing him to feel the heat radiating off him. "I waited. Just like you. I fought. Just like you. And right now, I’m breaking every rule of the Lee family by being here instead of guarding the manor."
The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of eighteen months of distance. Rome’s hand, still stained with the blood of his enemies, reached up to clench the back of Mok’s neck. His fingers trembled.
"If you ever stop watching me again," Rome whispered, his lips brushing against Mok’s, "I won't just kill them. I'll burn the whole family down. I’ll start with the manor and end with myself."
Mok closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. "Then stay where I can see you. No more secrets. No more logistics lies."
But the moment was shattered by the sound of a dozen engines roaring to life outside the warehouse. High beams cut through the cracks in the walls, illuminating the dust motes like diamonds.
"They’re here," Mok said, drawing his weapon in one fluid motion. He stepped in front of Rome, shielding him instinctively. "The enemies you triggered. They followed me."
Rome stood up, a slow, predatory smirk returning to his face as he checked the magazine of his own handgun. He felt alive for the first time in years. The waiting was over. The fighting was just beginning.
"Good," Rome said, standing shoulder to shoulder with Mok. "Rome will show them what happens when you interrupt a private conversation with my Mok."
The warehouse doors didn't just open; they were blown off their hinges. The shockwave rattled the crates, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Through the haze, the silhouettes of at least twenty men appeared, their submachine guns raised.
"Stay low" Mok commanded, but Rome was already moving.
They moved like two halves of a single machine. Mok was the shield—steady, tactical, his shots precise and rhythmic. Rome was the blade—erratic, aggressive and terrifyingly fast.
"You take the left, I take the right?" Rome shouted over the deafening roar of gunfire.
"Just stay behind the crates!" Mok yelled back, ducking as a spray of bullets shredded the wood inches above his head.
Rome didn't listen. He never did. He vaulted over a stack of pallets, firing mid air. He landed in a roll and came up behind two gunmen, neutralizing them before they could turn. He was a whirlwind of silk and violence.
Mok cursed under his breath, but there was a flicker of pride in his chest. This was the man he’d protected from the shadows for years, finally showing why he was a Lee. Mok stood his ground, drawing the fire toward himself to give Rome the openings he needed.
As the last of the gunmen fell, the silence that returned was ringing. The warehouse was a graveyard. Rome stood over the pile of brass shells, his chest heaving, his hair disheveled. He looked at Mok, and for a second, the bloodlust in his eyes softened into something much deeper.
"We need to move," Mok said, clicking a fresh magazine into his gun. "The police will be here in five minutes and your father’s extraction team in ten. We aren't going with either of them."
"Where are we going?" Rome asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Back to Thailand. We have a family dinner to finish."
The atmosphere at the Lee Manor in Bangkok was electric with dread. Thee was pacing the length of the koi pond, his phone glued to his ear, while Peach sat on a stone bench, wrapped in a cardigan, looking like he wanted to cry.
The Patriarch sat in his study, the doors open, waiting.
When the black SUV roared up the driveway, the guards didn't know whether to salute or draw their weapons. Out stepped Mok, his suit jacket gone, his white shirt stained with grease and dried blood. And right behind him, looking entirely too smug for a man who had just started a gang war, was Rome.
"Rome!" Peach cried out, running toward him.
Rome caught Peach in a brief, one armed hug, patting his back awkwardly. "Easy, Little Peach. I'm fine. Mostly."
Thee marched over, his face purple with rage. "You! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The alliances are in tatters! Father is furious!"
"Let him be furious," Rome said, his eyes shifting to Mok, who stood like a sentinel at his side. "I’m tired of being the good son who waits in Hong Kong while everyone else plays games."
They walked into the Patriarch’s study. The Old Man didn't look up from his calligraphy.
"You risked everything for a guard” the Patriarch said, his voice cold as a mountain stream.
"I risked everything for my guard," Rome corrected, slamming his hands on the desk. "And you lied to me. You sent him on a suicide mission without telling me. If he had died, you wouldn't just have lost a guard. You would have lost me."
The Patriarch finally looked up, his sharp eyes darting between Rome’s defiance and Mok’s unwavering loyalty. He saw the shift. The power dynamic had changed. Mok was no longer just a tool of the family; he was the anchor for the family’s most dangerous son.
"Then take him," the Patriarch said simply. "But if the Hong Kong triads come for our blood, it will be your hands that have to wash the floors."
"I've already started" Rome said darkly.
Late that night, the manor finally fell quiet. The high alert guards remained on the perimeter, but inside, the tension had turned into a weary peace.
Rome sat on the balcony of his old room, looking out over the lights of Bangkok. He felt a presence behind him—the familiar, comforting scent of sandalwood and gun oil.
Mok stepped out, leaning against the railing. He had changed into a clean shirt, but the exhaustion was etched deep into his face.
"Thee is still mad at us" Mok said softly.
"Thee is always mad. He'll get over it once Peach distracts him with wedding talk." Rome turned, looking at Mok in the moonlight. "Are you going to go back to logistics tomorrow?"
Mok shook his head. He reached out, his hand hovering before finally cupping Rome’s cheek. His thumb brushed over a small scratch on Rome’s jawline.
"I'm staying where I can see the logs," Mok whispered. "And the schedules. And you."
Rome leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. The eighteen months of waiting, the killing spree, the jealousy, and the fear—it all evaporated in the heat of that contact.
"Love meant waiting," Rome murmured, echoing the thought that had kept him sane for so long. "But I think I’m done with the waiting part."
Mok smiled—a rare, genuine thing that transformed his face. "Me too."
The cool night air of the balcony was a sharp contrast to the feverish adrenaline still pulsing through their veins. The silence of the manor wasn't a peace; it was a ceasefire.
Rome’s hand was still wrapped tightly around the back of Mok’s neck, his fingers digging into the short hairs there, grounding himself in the reality that Mok was actually back.
"I hated you every day for the last two months," Rome whispered against Mok’s lips, his breath smelling of expensive whiskey and the metallic tang of the night’s violence. "Every time I checked the logs and saw nothing... I wanted to burn everything you ever touched."
Mok didn't apologize. He didn't have words left. Instead, he grabbed the front of Rome’s silk shirt and hauled him inside the bedroom, kicking the balcony doors shut with a heavy thud.
The transition from the moonlight to the shadows of the room was seamless. Rome didn't wait. He shoved Mok back against the dark wood of the door, his mouth crashing against Mok's in a kiss that wasn't soft or romantic. It was a collision. It was months of repressed longing, jealousy and the terror of loss manifesting as pure, raw hunger.
Mok groaned into the kiss, his hands traveling down to Rome’s waist, pulling him so flush against his body that there wasn't a breath of air between them. He tasted the desperation in Rome’s mouth—the way Rome bit at his lower lip, drawing a tiny drop of blood, as if trying to mark him, to ensure he couldn't vanish into another secret mission again.
"Rome," Mok managed to rasp out, his voice breaking as Rome’s hands tore at the buttons of his shirt. "Slow down..."
"No." Rome’s eyes were dark, almost black in the shadows, glowing with a possessive fire. "I’m done waiting. I’m done being patient. You’re mine, Mok. You don't belong to my father or the mission or the Lee name. You belong to me. To Rome."
Rome pushed Mok toward the expansive bed, and they fell onto the silk sheets in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothing. The air in the room grew heavy, thick with the scent of skin and the heat radiating off them.
He wanted to undo every second of that eighteen month silence by asserting a physical dominance that Mok couldn’t ignore.
Rome gripped Mok’s jaw, forcing him to look directly into his eyes—eyes that were still wild with the remnants of the night’s bloodshed. "You stayed away too long," Rome hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "You let me think you were gone. Now, you’re going to feel exactly how much that cost me."
He shoved Mok down onto the bed, the mattress groaning under the sudden weight. Before Mok could even catch his breath, Rome was over him, his knees pinning Mok’s thighs. There was no hesitation. Rome stripped away the last of their clothing with a frantic, trembling energy, his movements fueled by a year and a half of repressed possessiveness.
Mok reached up, his large hands grasping Rome’s waist, trying to steady the storm. "Rome, I’m right here" he grounded out, his own pulse thundering against his ribs.
"You're damn right you are," Rome countered. He leaned down, biting a sharp, marking trail from Mok’s collarbone to his chest, leaving bruises that would serve as a reminder for days.
When Rome finally took him, it was a blunt, forceful re entry into each other's lives. It wasn't about finesse; it was about a desperate, carnal need to bridge the distance. Rome’s fingers stayed with Mok’s, pinning them into the pillows, forcing Mok to take every inch of the frustration and longing he had built up.
Mok let out a low, guttural groan, his head snapping back against the headboard. His eyes blew wide, focused entirely on Rome’s face—the sweat beaded brow, the clenched jaw, the sheer, raw emotion pouring out of him. Mok didn't fight back; he took it, his body arching to meet Rome's every thrust, his own desire mirroring the intensity of the man above him.
"Look at me," Rome commanded, his voice breaking as the rhythm became frantic. "Don't you dare close your eyes. I want you to know exactly who is holding you."
Mok stared up at him, his gaze unwavering even as his breath came in ragged gasps. "I know," Mok rasped, his voice thick with heat. "It’s only ever been you, Rome. Always."
The friction and the heat spiraled until the world outside the room ceased to exist. Rome pushed harder, faster, his heart hammering against Mok’s chest until they were both vibrating with the same frantic energy.
When the end came, it was a shattering release that left them both breathless and drained, clinging to one another in the dark.
Rome collapsed onto Mok’s chest, his forehead resting in the hollow of Mok's shoulder. He could feel Mok’s heart slowing down, a steady rhythm that finally quieted the roar in his own head.
"Don't go again." Rome whispered into the skin of Mok’s neck, the command finally softening into a plea.
Mok wrapped his arms around Rome, holding him with a strength that promised he wasn't going anywhere. "I'm staying," Mok promised, his voice steady. "The mission is over. I'm yours."