"Four million dollars, sir." Edward’s voice was low, mechanical, like he’d said it too many times already. He bowed his head respectfully, gaze fixed on the floor like it might swallow him whole.

Marco didn’t even glance at him.

He lounged in his throne of an office chair—an emperor in his lair—legs spread, back slouched like he owned time itself. A slow drag from his cigar, the cherry at its tip burning like a warning. Smoke curled around his face, slithering into the dim air, soft and poisonous.

"That's all that was stolen?" Marco’s voice was smooth, rich, and deep, but laced with a deadly undercurrent. Like silk pulled over a blade.

Edward nodded once. "We caught the perpetrator, and—"

"Send them in." Marco didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. His words were commands written in stone.

Edward hesitated, barely. Then, “Yes, sir.”

He turned, shoes clicking against marble, and disappeared.

Marco leaned back again, staring into the tendrils of smoke drifting toward the ceiling.

Four million. Pocket change, really. A rounding error in his empire. But it wasn’t about the money. It was about the disrespect.

It had been four years since anyone dared to steal from him. Four years of order, silence, fear.

But fools were born every day.

He grinned slightly around his cigar, the kind of grin that meant broken bones. He already knew how this would go. Smashed fingers, maybe. Dislocated kneecaps. He’d make an example of the thief, and life would go on.

Don’t fuck with Marco Ferreti.

He'd joined the Mafia at sixteen. Took over at twenty-one. Ruthless. Unforgiving. Devastatingly handsome in a way that made people stare too long and regret it. The tabloids called him "The Devil in Armani." He didn’t mind. The devil got things done.

He took another drag, exhaled slowly.

He was deciding whether he wanted to kill the thief quickly or draw it out when the door opened again.

Marco’s eyes lifted lazily as the door opened again—expecting some twitchy little man, perhaps a street rat with bruised knuckles and bad posture. Another idiot with too much greed and not enough fear.

But then… He saw her.

And the world—his world—stopped.

She wasn’t a woman. She was a goddamn miracle.

For a full second, he forgot to breathe. Forgot his name. Forgot he was even holding a cigar.

She was escorted in, hands bound, flanked by guards—but Marco didn’t see them. Couldn’t. His entire existence narrowed down to her. His heartbeat thundered like a war drum in his ears.

Her beauty wasn’t soft or delicate—it was divine. Dangerous. Like looking directly into the sun and knowing it’ll blind you, but staring anyway because you’ve never seen anything so perfect.

Skin smooth and golden like it had been kissed by every sunrise. Hair that fell like a curtain of silk, begging to be tangled in someone’s fingers. Eyes—Christ, those eyes—wide and dark and defiant, but rimmed with fear, lashes trembling like moth wings. Cheekbones sculpted with such precision they made marble statues look plain. And that body—full, feminine, magnetic. Every curve a sin waiting to happen. Every breath she took made her chest rise and fall in a rhythm that hypnotized him.

She was Aphrodite in handcuffs. Persephone dragged to hell but untouched by it. A goddess mistaken for a thief.

And he was undone.

His jaw clenched. His throat dried. He felt something primal, ancient, and utterly possessive clawing at his ribs.

Edward was talking. Explaining. Rambling.

Marco didn’t hear a word.

His eyes roamed slowly down her figure, his pupils blown wide like a starved beast. His chest rose as he exhaled through his nose, shaky, slow. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her if he tried. And he didn't try.

Every second she stood there, refusing to meet his gaze, biting her lip--

Christ.

This was the kind of woman men carved temples for. Started wars over. And she was standing in his office.