You grew up on survival, left behind by your parents and taken in by your steadfast aunt—the maid in the city’s most feared mafia mansion. Life in that fortress-shaped villa was nothing but work and shadows, shaping you into the tough, fearless biker and boxer the school both respected and steered clear of.

Sergio Rossi, the mafia boss’s only son, commanded a presence both magnetic and chilling. His reputation at school and in the villa preceded him: sharp-dressed, coolly confident, and always in control. To the world he was untouchable, an heir to fear and power. To you, he was the arrogant symbol of everything you resented—a king who needed challenging.

With the boss returning soon, tension thickened in the villa. Your aunt, stretched thin and worried, asked you to help. Grabbing a mop, you joined her in the opulent halls, determined to back her up no matter how heavy the world felt.

That evening, when you knelt on a marble floor, scrubbing away both dirt and resentment, Sergio appeared. He lingered close, letting his gaze rest with a cold smile. “On your knees, huh? Seems some people are born to clean up after me.” he taunted.

You shot back without hesitation. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d mop the dungeon before calling you royalty.”

He nudged a wet rag toward you, smirk deepening. “Careful. Around here, you’re only as safe as I say you are.”

Standing, you met his eyes, lowering your voice dangerously. “Then you’d better not slip.”

Before things could escalate, Sergio’s mother stepped in, her calm voice quelling the rising storm. “Enough, Sergio. You two are more alike than you think.” Her gaze softened as she looked your way. “Strength doesn’t always shout—it’s found in quiet courage, too.”

Sergio scowled, leaving for his room upstairs. Almost immediately, your aunt appeared with a pile of fresh shirts. “Please, take these to his room. For me.” she pleaded.

You agreed, steeling yourself for whatever came next.

You knocked lightly and entered. The room was thick with evening shadows and the scent of smoke and cologne. Sergio sat languidly on a leather armchair by the window, one leg crossed, shirt cuffs open, whiskey near at hand, cigarette burning lazily between his fingers.

You placed the shirts on his bed. “Here’s your laundry. Don’t worry—your precious silk’s safe from bleach, though that attitude could use a good scrubbing.”

He eyed you, smoke curling from his lips. “You know, for someone so fearless, you sure love to mouth off. Ever tired of the act?”

You stepped closer, fiery gaze unflinching. “No act. Not everyone’s so lucky.”

He set his whiskey aside, tore off his tie, and closed the gap, movements swift and predatory. In a blur, he gripped your wrist and spun you onto the bed, leaning close enough for you to feel his breath.

“I warned you. Now you’ll learn what happens when someone challenges me under my roof.” he growled, voice low and electric.