Chapter Text
Gerard’s shift at the Port Authority train terminal always dragged late at night, but he didn’t mind. The booth was small, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, and the steady hum of trains passing through gave him a rhythm to sink into. He sat cross-legged on his stool in his striped button-up uniform shirt and too-tight black jeans, nose buried in his latest obsession: Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger.
Mafia romance. The kind of thing that should’ve been ridiculous but somehow never failed to make his pulse race. Dangerous men who’d burn the world down for the person they loved. Soft moments hidden behind blood and violence. That kind of devotion, that kind of hunger—it was a fantasy Gerard had devoured over and over.
He licked his thumb, turned the page, and thought, God, if only.
His phone buzzed with messages from his friends, all getting ready for tonight, sending pics of their outfits. Gerard skimmed them, but he knew his was the best, revealing in the best ways, showing off his best asset: his ass. He snickered, checking the time; his shift ended in ten minutes, and he was determined to finish this chapter.
Tonight, he and his friends were going to the waterfront to the Viper Pit, a club owned and operated by the Iero family. The Ieros are infamous for gun running and owning some of the most hardcore sex clubs in Jersey. Gerard and his friends were obsessed with them since they learned about them, and tonight, he hoped to be in their presence. He wished to see one or maybe rub elbows with some dangerous characters, his mother had warned him, but Gerard never listened. He wanted an alpha like the men in his books, murderous, charming, sexy, and possessive.
Ten minutes later, he traded places with his co-worker, grabbed his backpack, and slung it over his shoulder. He walked into the women’s bathroom, slipping into the empty stall and starting to strip, the cold air on his skin. He slipped off his granny panties and put on his first g-string, feeling a rush of naughtiness as he stepped into his bodycon dress. All those at-home pilates videos had paid off; he looked feminine and curvy in his tight dress. Lastly, he buckled his Mary Janes, shoved his clothes in his backpack, and slipped on his little leather jacket, tucking his cards into a flashy clutch. He applied his makeup quickly: rose-gold on his lids, a touch of highlight, glossy lips, and a line of puppy liner.
Gerard strutted out of the train station, the night air on his bare thighs that he had shaved the night before. He walked down the street to his old clunker, unlocking it and jerking the door open, sliding into the cracked leather seats of his Datsun, and tossing his backpack in the backseat. He slammed the door and turned the key. The car sputtered and squealed. He turned it off for a second, then turned the key, and it roared to life.
Gerard’s shitty car coughed and rattled its way into the club’s packed lot, sounding like it might give out at any second. But it held, just barely, long enough to find a spot in the lot. He slipped out of the car and walked up to the long line of people, finding his girls all waiting in their sequins and smiles. The bouncer checked they’re IDs and waved them in above the line of dudes in front of them.
Inside, the bass hit like a physical force, thumping through his ribcage, rattling the bottles behind the bar. Lights strobed over bodies grinding together, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and expensive liquor. Gerard threw his arms around his friends and let them drag him into the press of the dance floor, hips swaying, laughter bubbling loose as they rubbed against each other, daring the room to look.
They pressed through the mess of bodies up to the bar, Gerard ordering a vodka cranberry and getting a once-over by the bartender. Looking around, Gerard knew he looked out of place, with his long, honey blonde hair and lack of tattoos and piercings, he looked like a child. He’s 26. His soft features and innocent eyes always gave him a youthful appearance; he got carded constantly. He handed over his ID and smiled like he did in the photo, getting a skeptical look from the bartender before he shrugged and got his drink.
He got his drink and perched on a stool with his friends, looking around at the mass of bodies moving on the floor. They reminded him of the rat king he read about in school, a mass of rats, whose tails tangled and had to move as one. The throng of gyrating bodies reminded him of that, moving as one.
Surveying the room, and that’s when he saw him.
Not on the dance floor, not at the bar—up above, in the roped-off glow of the VIP. A man, young but sharp-eyed, lounging like he owned the room, and maybe he did. Tattoos snaked across his throat, disappearing into the collar of a perfectly cut shirt, and his gaze was a weight Gerard felt even across the room.
“Who’s that?” Gerard asked, breathless, leaning close to be heard over the music.
His friend glanced up, eyes widening. Then she smirked. “That’s Frank. The little prince.”
The name pulsed in Gerard’s ears like the bass itself.
Everyone knew the little prince; he was ruthless, scary. Rumors said he had sent more bodies to the river than his father. His brutality was legendary; people feared him in every corner of Jersey.
But Gerard didn’t feel fear. He felt heat.
The sight of Frank—the sharp suit, the dangerous smirk, the way the room bent around him like gravity—was like stepping into the dog-eared pages of his favorite books. He wasn’t supposed to look at him this long. He wasn’t supposed to want it. But Gerard’s pulse thumped like the bass, whispering: this is him. This is the kind of alpha you’ve been waiting for.
Frank broke eye contact first, turning to talk to his bodyguard, and Gerard let his fantasy wash over him. Gerard tipped his head back, letting music and vodka wash through him, the hem of his dress riding higher as he swayed. When he glanced toward the edge of the floor, he caught the eye of one of the club’s massive bouncers. The man’s grin was disarming– unexpectedly sweet, with a deep dimple cutting through the hard set of his jaw; his name tag read Shadows.
Gerard, dizzy and reckless, shot him a wink. He turned back to the crowd, already picturing the man’s heavy steps closing in.
A tap on the shoulder startled him.
Grinning, he spun, expecting the dimpled bouncer—only to find someone else. A leaner man, dressed in all black, a headset curled against his ear. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes flicked up and down Gerard in a way that made his skin prickle. His name tag read: Syn.
“My boss would like to meet you,” the man said, voice flat, businesslike.
Gerard’s stomach swooped. He didn’t have to ask which boss. His gaze slid instinctively toward the velvet rope, to the shadowed figure watching from the VIP balcony.
The “little prince” was calling.
Gerard’s mouth went dry.
This wasn’t how it went in the books—except, no, it was exactly how it went in the books. The dark invitation, the dangerous man watching from the shadows, the unspoken promise that stepping into his world meant not coming back the same.
Vodka and adrenaline fizzed in his bloodstream, and still, he nodded.
Of course, he nodded.
His friend watched wide-eyed in a scared huddle as he followed the spikey-haired man to the VIP section. He glanced back at them, but the worry on their faces did nothing to stop him from stepping behind the rope. For a split second, he thought about slipping back into the blur of bodies.
But curiosity tugged him forward.
He trailed behind the man past the velvet rope, up a short flight of stairs, into a shadowed corner of the club where everything smelled of leather and expensive whiskey. The pounding music dimmed, muffled by thick curtains.
A booth waited in the corner, half-shrouded in darkness. The man who had summoned him—Frank, the “little prince”—lounged there, one arm stretched lazily across the backrest, black ink curling up the tendons of his hand. His eyes locked onto Gerard immediately, sharp and unblinking.
The handler stepped aside, and as soon as Gerard slid into the booth, the heavy curtain fell shut behind him with a soft swish.
The noise of the club dulled to nothing.
Now it was just him and Frank.
Gerard barely had time to register the gleam of Frank’s eyes before the smaller man was right there, invading his space like he had every right to. The difference in their height didn’t matter—Frank carried himself like the room bent around him.
A sharp inhale ghosted across Gerard’s throat. Frank was sniffing him, eyes half-lidded, like he’d caught a scent he couldn’t put down.
Then Frank moved fast. One hand snared Gerard’s wrist, tugging him down until he landed squarely across Frank’s lap. The other hand pressed hard into the soft flesh of Gerard’s thigh, fingers digging in as though staking a claim.
Gerard’s back hit the cool leather of the booth, the curtain behind him cutting off any retreat. Frank crowded him in with his whole body, warm and solid, his mouth already at Gerard’s throat.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was open, demanding, teeth grazing the spot just under his jaw. Frank lingered there, lips sealing over Gerard’s scent point like he could brand him through skin alone.
Gerard gasped, his pulse skittering out of control. He’d read scenes like this in his books, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the reality of Frank Iero.
Frank’s mouth moved restlessly, sliding from the edge of Gerard’s jaw to the shell of his ear, nipping hard enough to make Gerard shiver.
“What’s your name?” Frank asked, voice low, roughened by the press of lips against his skin.
“G–Gerard,” he managed, breath catching when Frank sucked at the tender spot just beneath his ear, teeth scraping.
“How old are you?” Frank demanded between kisses, as though he needed every answer fed to him immediately. His hand flexed on Gerard’s thigh, creeping higher.
“Twenty-six,” Gerard breathed, the number trembling out of him as Frank sealed another hickey into his throat, marking him where no collar could hide it.
“Where do you live?” The question was a growl this time, muffled against Gerard’s pulse point.
Gerard squirmed, overwhelmed, his mind spinning with the rush of sensation. He barely realized what he was giving away until Frank’s hand finally slipped under the hem of his dress, rough palm skating over the curve of his bare ass, gripping like he owned it.
Every bite, every question, every bruise pressed into his skin carried the same message: you’re mine.
Gerard was so turned on his nipples hard as diamonds at the rough treatment from the alpha, he shivered, loving the urgent and aggressive way he handled him. His mind was swimming with lust and flashes from his fantasies invading his mind.
Gerard couldn’t tell where the questions ended and his answers began. His lips moved, offering up name, age, scraps of his life, while Frank’s teeth and mouth marked him like territory. It was dizzying—like stepping off a cliff he’d spent years staring down from in all his books.
He had always imagined it would feel like surrender. Instead, it felt like gravity. Inevitable. Unstoppable. Frank Iero.
Gerard should’ve been nervous, tucked into the corner of that leather booth with a mob prince’s teeth on his throat. He should’ve been afraid of the hands that had probably held weapons more than once, the reputation that whispered about bodies buried under Frank Iero’s name.
But instead, heat unfurled in his belly. Every rough kiss, every demanding question made his pulse pound faster—not with fear, but with want.
He tipped his head back willingly, giving Frank more skin to claim, dragging his lip between his teeth as Frank’s hand kneaded his ass like he already owned it.
Dangerous. Possessive. Untouchable.
Gerard had read about men like this in every dog-eared mafia romance stuffed under his mattress, but feeling it for real was overwhelming. It ticked every single box in his secret fantasies.
And the way Frank growled against his throat—like he already knew—only made Gerard arch closer, silently begging for more.
Frank shifted under him, crowding closer, one hand sliding up the line of Gerard’s spine until his fingers tangled in his hair. The kiss he gave him wasn’t tentative, wasn’t sweet. It was hungry—heated enough that Gerard could taste the faint tang of whiskey on Frank’s tongue when he pulled back, lips shiny with stolen gloss.
Frank’s dark eyes raked over him, sharp and assessing.
“Do you know who I am?”
Gerard’s breath hitched, but he nodded.
“Does that scare you?” Frank’s thumb brushed over his lower lip, smearing the gloss he’d just stolen.
Gerard shook his head, pulse thundering.
“Does it turn you on?” he asked, his breath hot on Gerard’s skin.
Gerard met his eyes and nodded.
That smile—wolfish, satisfied—spread slowly across Frank’s face. “Good,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his nose brushed Gerard’s cheek. “Because I’m gonna have fun with you.”
The promise in his voice wasn’t lighthearted. It was possessive, edged with the kind of certainty that made Gerard’s stomach twist in heat. This wasn’t a question. This was inevitable.
Frank’s lips trailed down Gerard’s neck, soft at first, then pressing harder as his tongue flicked over the pulse point at his collarbone. Gerard’s breath hitched, every nerve alive as Frank’s mouth mapped over the expanse of skin his dress left exposed. His hand didn’t move—still gripping Gerard’s bare ass—but Frank’s heat, his strength, his possessive insistence made Gerard feel completely at his mercy.
Around them, the bass thumped, laughter and music echoed, but Gerard couldn’t hear it. The club, the crowd, the world beyond this booth—they all dissolved. The curtain was a barrier not just of velvet but of reality, shrinking everything down to Frank’s scent, his touch, the soft pressure of his teeth grazing Gerard’s shoulder.
Every flick of Frank’s tongue, every pull of his lips, sent Gerard deeper into a whirl of dangerous delight, every naughty fantasy he’d ever had taking shape in the press of Frank’s body against his. He couldn’t see it all clearly, but he could feel it—the dominance, the desire, the absolute claim Frank was staking right there, and Gerard didn’t want it any other way.
Frank pulls back, resting a hand on his cheek, “Wanna come see my penthouse?”
Gerard’s brain short-circuits; he licks his lips, “Yes, please.”