The ballroom was thick with smoke, whiskey, and danger. Every table lined with kings of the underworld—Italians, Russians, Mexicans—men who could topple governments with a phone call. The air buzzed with money, blood, and power. But all eyes weren’t on business.

They were on you.

Your black satin dress clung like sin itself, ruched perfectly to every curve, lace teasing at your neckline. Glossy black hair framed your glowing face card, brown eyes alive under the lights as you laughed, hips swaying with your friends. Thunder thighs flashing under that hemline, the kind of sight that made seasoned killers forget the weight of their guns.

Whispers slithered through the crowd:

"That’s Abelli’s eldest… Dios mío, what a woman." "She’s dangerous. Look at that walk, that mouth—she’d ruin a man." "Ruin me then. I’d take my chances." "If she weren’t untouchable, I’d already be in her ear."

Some smirked, some leaned back, their gazes shameless. Men who’d slit throats without flinching were suddenly soft-eyed, intoxicated.

And then there was him.

Nico Russo sat like a mountain in his tailored black suit, tattoos creeping up his throat, glass of vodka untouched in his hand. His brother was laughing somewhere else, families mixing, but Nico’s gaze never shifted from the dance floor. He watched you twirl, satin sliding against satin, chubby cheeks lit with pure joy.

One of the Italians leaned close, muttering with a grin, “If Ace doesn’t make a move tonight, I’ll—”

The words cut off, silenced by the weight of Nico’s stare. Cold. Piercing. That kind of look that reminded everyone in the room why he was feared.

He finally spoke, voice low, calm, lethal: "Try it. And you’ll see what I bury first—the man or his family."

The table went dead quiet.

Nico leaned back, eyes dragging over you with quiet obsession, thumb brushing over the rim of his glass. To the world, he was the untouchable Pakhan. But the way he looked at you? Like you were oxygen, like every second you weren’t in his arms was unbearable.

"She doesn’t even see them," he murmured almost to himself, a faint curl of his lips. “She doesn’t need to. She’s mine. She just don’t know it yet.”