The night wrapped itself around the city like silk soaked in gasoline—soft, deadly, waiting to ignite. The club's neon lights pulsed red, bleeding across the faces of strangers who were all too eager to forget themselves. I wasn't supposed to be here. Not tonight. Not with him.
But I saw him anyway.
He stood at the far end of the VIP lounge, a glass of something dark in his hand, and a thousand secrets in his eyes. Dressed in black, like he owned the shadows themselves. I didn't know his name. But I knew power when I saw it. And danger.
I didn't look away.
His eyes locked on me before I even realized I was staring. Dark. Intense. Like he could see everything I was trying to bury. Then came the smile—slight, arrogant, the kind that promises pleasure and pain at the same time.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I walked straight toward him.
"You're not supposed to be up here," the bouncer growled, moving slightly into my path. He didn't touch me though—maybe he sensed I wasn't in the mood to be handled.
"She's with me," the man said smoothly.
His voice was deep and low, like the hum of a loaded gun right before it fires. The bouncer stepped aside without another word. I stepped in.
"What's your name?" I asked, my voice steadier than I expected.
He didn't answer right away. Just handed me his drink like we'd known each other forever.
"Luca," he said finally. "And you?"
"Alina." I took a sip. The liquor burned going down, but I didn't flinch.
His smile widened. "Alina. Beautiful name. Dangerous mouth."
"Are you always this confident?" I teased, narrowing my eyes.
"No," he said, leaning in close enough for my skin to prickle. "Only when I see something I want."
We talked, though it wasn't really talking. The tension simmered between us, stretching like a wire strung tight. I knew I should've asked him what he did for a living. I should've noticed the way everyone kept their distance from him. The way his security scanned the room like they were expecting a bullet to fly at any second.
But I didn't care. Not when his fingers brushed mine as he handed me another drink. Not when his knee grazed mine under the table. Not when he leaned in and whispered something about how my eyes looked like trouble.
The music faded behind the roar of blood in my ears. His scent—sandalwood, smoke, sin—filled my head like a drug. My breath caught every time he looked at me like I was his next mistake.
I didn't care when he asked if I wanted to leave with him.
I said yes.
---
His penthouse was all glass and marble—cold, expensive, perfect. It sat on top of the city like a crown. I stood at the edge of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the city blinking below, trying to catch my breath.
"Scared of heights?" he asked, coming up behind me.
"No. Just not used to being this high up," I said softly.
He brushed my hair aside, his breath hot against my neck. "You'll get used to it."
His hands slid to my waist before I could reply. His lips were at my throat a second later. My body tensed—then melted. Every part of me screamed this was wrong. But none of me moved to stop it.
Clothes came off like a dare.
He kissed me like he was punishing me for existing. Like he needed to consume me to quiet whatever demons haunted him. His fingers roamed with purpose. His mouth claimed every inch of me like he had a right to. There was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger.
We didn't speak. We didn't need to.
The bed became a battleground of lust and control. He didn't ask for permission—but he didn't need to. He read my body like it was a language he was fluent in.
It wasn't just sex.
It was an unraveling.
His mouth traced lines across my skin like ink, his grip leaving invisible marks I could still feel long after it was over. I had never been touched like that before. Like I was a drug. Like I was a sin he'd happily commit again.
I collapsed beside him afterward, our chests rising and falling in unison. For a brief second, I wondered what this meant.
Then I remembered I didn't even know his last name.
---
I woke before dawn. The city was still asleep, wrapped in a violet haze. I watched the skyline shift as I reached for him—but the space beside me was cold.
Gone.
But not completely.
There was a note on the pillow, written in perfect, elegant handwriting:
> Don't fall in love with me. I ruin beautiful things.
I stared at it, my chest tightening.
A laugh bubbled up, bitter and raw.
Too late.
I dressed slowly, my body still aching with memory, my mind whirling with questions I had no right to ask. Who was Luca, really? A criminal? A king? Or just another man who knew how to leave before the damage became permanent?
I walked barefoot across his penthouse, stopping once more at the glass wall. Below, the world looked small. Harmless. But I knew better now.
Whatever I had stepped into—it wasn't harmless.
It was the beginning of the cage I wouldn't escape from.