The night was painted in velvet shadows when I first saw him.
The world's richest mafia boss. Untouchable. Lethal. Wrapped in a suit that screamed power. At thirty, he ruled not only with money but with fear. Six feet of carved perfection with dark black eyes that could slice through the soul. Cruel. Ruthless. A man no one dared defy.
They called him The King.
I never expected my path to cross with his. Not when my life had already been torn apart.
My father had died in an accident—an accident where he pushed me out of the way, choosing my life over his own. I'd woken up in the hospital, broken and confused, asking for him. My mother had lied. Lied that he was alive. Lied until the hospital bills became a rope she tightened around my throat.
"You owe me," she hissed, shoving the papers at me, her voice sharp as a blade. "Your father's death wasn't free. Do something, or I'll throw you out."
She didn't care that my heart was raw, that my world had already caved in. All she cared about was squeezing me dry, demanding money I didn't have.
And that's how I ended up here—standing at the gates of the mansion everyone whispered about. His mansion. A fortress of luxury guarded like a kingdom, where no one entered unless he allowed it.
The guards had looked me over, their eyes lingering too long on my lips—lips that had always been my curse, too soft, too inviting. I hated how they noticed, how men always noticed. But still, I stood tall at 5'11, refusing to show fear.
When they finally led me inside, the air shifted. My heels clicked against marble so polished it reflected my trembling frame. Then I saw him—reclined on a velvet chair, a glass of whiskey in hand, as though he had been waiting for me.
Those black eyes lifted, pinning me where I stood.
For a moment, silence stretched between us, heavy and dangerous.
"Do you know who I am?" His voice was smooth, deep, but laced with steel.
"Yes," I breathed, though my heart hammered in my chest. "The richest mafia boss in the world."
A corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile—more like a predator baring his teeth.
"And yet," he murmured, setting the glass aside and standing, "you walk into my home, uninvited."
I swallowed hard, every instinct telling me to run. But I couldn't—not when my mother's threats still echoed in my ears, not when desperation clawed at my insides.
"I need money," I said, my voice trembling but steady enough to reach him.
He stilled, those black eyes narrowing, dissecting me like prey. Then, slow and deliberate, he walked toward me, closing the space until his scent—expensive, intoxicating—wrapped around me.
"You don't ask me for money," he said, his tone low, dangerous. "You offer me something worth taking."
My lips parted, my pulse racing. His gaze dropped to them, lingering, darkening. And in that moment, I realized—I had stepped into the devil's den, and the devil wanted a price I wasn't sure I could pay.