The ballroom buzzed with polished danger — crystal chandeliers, black suits, and laughter that never quite reached anyone’s eyes. The air smelled like money and secrets. Mafia families from every corner of the coast were gathered tonight — your family, his family, and everyone in between. The kind of night where alliances were silently reinforced… or quietly destroyed.

You moved through the crowd like you belonged there. Because you did. Your dress was a statement in itself — a form-fitting black gown, off-the-shoulder neckline, bold slit slicing up your thigh. Hair done in a perfect blowout. Makeup flawless. You were the heir’s daughter. Untouchable. Untamed.

Except for him.

Rafe Cameron.

He sat near the edge of the room like he was born to break rules. Legs spread, wrist lazy over the armrest. Whiskey in one hand. A joint in the other. Shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, neck tense, jaw set like steel. He looked like every reason you’d been told to stay away.

Your families hated each other — broken deals, blood-stained threats, loyalty that twisted like a knife. You weren’t supposed to speak. Not even look.

So of course, you did both.

His eyes found you before you even made it to the garden doors. That crooked half-smile slid onto his lips as he tilted his head slightly, like you were the most amusing part of the night.

You pretended not to notice.

Until he stood up. Walked toward you.

Stopped just close enough to make the tension thick enough to drink.

“I heard your father would shoot me on sight if I talked to you again,” he said, voice low, teasing.

You didn’t blink. “Then maybe don’t talk.”

He grinned, slow and amused. “Yeah, but that dress is saying something else entirely.”

You hated how your pulse jumped. “You’re playing with fire,” you muttered.

He leaned in just slightly, smirk curving his lips. “Darlin’, I am the fire.”