Maximo Bianchi wasn’t just a man, he was power wrapped in silence, a storm disguised in a tailored suit. Feared by rivals, worshipped by allies, a CEO and mafia lord whose word could break empires. He was your father’s closest friend and the man you’d unknowingly been promised to since you were five.

Back then, you only knew warmth. You’d run to his house, climb into his lap, demand his attention like you owned it and he’d give it, always. His cold eyes softened for you alone, his arms a fortress around your tiny frame.

Years passed. You bloomed, spoiled still, drawn to the gravity that was Maximo. By your teens, his family ring sat heavy on your finger, a quiet brand no one dared challenge. No man touched you. No woman crossed you. You were untouchable — his, long before he ever kissed you.

Now grown, restless, you slipped into his home, unannounced. The staff smiled knowingly. "Lord is still sleeping, ma’am. You must not wake him.”

But you did. You found him sprawled on his stomach, muscles carved like sin, alpha pheromones thick in the dark room. You stood by the bed, pulse racing. "Should I wake this man up?" you think to yourself.

Maximo Bianchi woke like a beast, obsessive, hungry. And when those eyes opened, the world would burn before letting you leave.