Marin's pov:
One of the other waitresses brushed past me, her tray already full. "Can you take this up to the VIP suite?" she asked quickly, handing me a single glass of aged whiskey. "I've got three tables waiting—I can't make it right now."
I hesitated. My heart fluttered, but I nodded. "O-okay."
I clutched the glass carefully, weaving through the crowd. My heels wobbled slightly beneath me, and I adjusted the tray to stop it from shaking. I didn't even know who I was serving—just that it was VIP. Which meant *important. Dangerous.*
I swallowed hard.
When I reached the roped-off stairs, the bouncer gave me a bored glance, then waved me through. I climbed carefully, willing myself not to trip. The VIP section was quieter, more shadowed. Expensive-looking men and women lounged in velvet booths, drowning in perfume, cigars, and power.
And then I saw *him*.
Seated alone in a booth, radiating pure dominance.
His features were razor-sharp—*blonde hair*, slightly tousled like he didn't care but still looked perfect. *Eyes like ice—deep blue*, steady and unreadable. His *jawline could cut glass*, and his *nose was pointed and intimidating*, commanding without even trying. Every inch of him screamed control and strength, even from his relaxed posture.
But what made my breath catch was his size. From his seat, I could already tell—he was a *giant. Easily 6'4*. Broad shoulders, powerful arms under his black shirt. A walking, breathing wall of muscle and mystery.
I stepped closer, trying to focus.
Just place the drink.
My fingers trembled as I lowered the tray—*and the glass slipped.*
It tumbled from my hand and crashed against his chest, cold whiskey soaking into his shirt, splashing across his torso.
Time stopped.
My heart dropped. "I—I'm so sor—"
Nothing came out. My lips moved, but panic choked every word.
He looked down at the mess, then up at me with piercing calm.
His voice came low and deep, smooth but commanding. "What's your name, bunny?"
I blinked, frozen.
"…M-Marin," I finally whispered.
His eyes lingered on me, and in that instant, I knew—*I was in trouble.*
But not the kind I'd been warned about.
---The weight of his icy gaze felt like a spotlight burning through me. Every nerve screamed to run, to hide—to disappear.
My cheeks flamed with embarrassment, heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it.
I stumbled backward, my words lost in the chaos of my own racing mind.
I couldn't face him. Not now. Not like this.
Without thinking, I turned on my heel and fled, weaving through the crowd, my breath short and ragged.
The room seemed to tilt as the stares of other patrons followed me.
Somewhere behind me, I heard Sofia's voice calling my name, but I didn't stop.
I just needed to get away.
Away from the cold blue eyes.
Away from *Nico De Santis*.
Behind me, the chaos of the VIP section settled again, but not before I heard a low voice—firm, controlled.
"Want me to get her, boss?" someone asked. It was the man sitting beside him—tall, built like a soldier.
There was a pause.
Then Nico's voice, calm and final: "No. Let her go."
Just like that, the matter was dropped. As if it had never happened.
But for me, it had.
I pushed through the back hallway, heels clacking against the tile floor as I rounded a corner and leaned against the wall, chest heaving.
What had I just done?
The door creaked open, and Sofia slipped in behind me.
"Marin!" she hissed, rushing to my side. "What happened? Why did you run?"
I shook my head, face flushed with shame. "I spilled the drink—on someone important. I panicked."
Sofia rubbed my arm gently. "That was *Nico De Santis*."
My heart dropped. "The owner?"
She nodded. "The owner. The devil himself in this city."
I covered my face with both hands. "I want to disappear."
She sighed. "Well, good news is—you've got his attention now. And in this place, that means something."
I didn't know if that was a warning… or a threat in disguise.
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