money

Max pinched the bridge of his nose as he went into the car. Before his chauffeur could close the door, however, Daniel leant in, having rushed from the bar’s entrance. "I forgot to tell you…" the Australian begun, his face serious and grave. Max gritted his teeth, silently nodding for the man to continue. He couldn’t stand much more. He wanted to scream at the entire world. To run home and hide and force some sense down his own throat. To put himself back together. "I left a- a gift at your house. For your birthday… I planned it long ago, before-" "Alright," Max cut him, short and harsh. or Charles, a high end prostitute, finds himself in the arms of a man who really, really, cares for him, despite the gun on his nightstand.

It all started with a stolen wallet from some sort of Dutch mafia man at the club. He'd entertained the man, slipped his hand into his suit jacket, and plucked the debit card from inside with the intention of buying something nice. It wasn't like Charles really understood that his tattooed stranger was Max Verstappen, the Penoze boss of Amsterdam. Besides, how were either of them supposed to anticipate the wild sex that followed, a turf war with Italian mafia for the exotic dancer, and falling into an unconventional relationship? The things one does for love...