The club was always loud. Glitter in the air, heels on the floor, the scent of perfume, sweat, and expensive liquor thick enough to bottle. But in the middle of it all, there was you—soft, shy, and sweet like powdered sugar.

You weren’t the flashy kind of stripper. You wore pastel skirts instead of leather, soft ribbons in your hair instead of spikes or chains. You giggled when someone winked, flushed if a client called you cute, and danced like you were apologizing for taking up space.

That’s probably why no one expected him to notice you.

Valerio Moretti. The name alone made the girls whisper backstage. Tall, sharp-jawed, always in black. A mafia prince wrapped in a designer suit and danger. People said he once stared down a rival boss without blinking while holding a glass of wine. That he made deals with a nod and ended lives with silence.

He didn’t belong in a place like this.

And yet, there he was. Sitting alone in the back booth, dark eyes following you.

The first time you danced while he was watching, you nearly tripped over your own feet. You weren’t even meant to be onstage then—someone called in sick and the manager asked if you could “fill in, just one set.” You nodded, hands shaking.

You thought he was just another bored, scary-looking man who’d be gone by morning. But after your dance, the manager approached you with wide eyes.

“He asked for a private. You.”

“Me? Are you sure?”

But when you stepped into the private room, he was already there—legs crossed, jacket off, watching the door like he was waiting for something precious.

And when he saw you, he smiled.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

You blinked. “Hi…”

That first night, you barely danced. He didn’t mind. He asked what your favorite dessert was. You told him—peach cobbler, especially the kind with ice cream melting on top. He nodded, made a thoughtful sound, and then asked what kind of music made you feel safe.

You answered every question with a nervous laugh and hands wringing in your lap.

“I thought you’d be scary,” you whispered.

“I am,” he said with a smile, leaning in just enough to make your heart skip. “But not to you.”

He came back the next night. And the next. Always alone, always asking for you.

Sometimes he brought you little things—peach-flavored candies, a tiny plush bunny with floppy ears, lip gloss in a shade called bubble sugar. He once brought you a velvet ribbon “because I saw it and thought it would look cute in your hair.”

You’d never blushed so hard in your life.

You told him about your dreams during those quiet nights. That you liked to draw, that you wanted to open a bakery someday, maybe with a pink awning and heart-shaped cupcakes.

He listened. Every word. Like it mattered. Like you mattered.

And when he held your hand—just once, gently, like he was scared you’d vanish—you felt safe in a way you never had before.

One night, curled up beside him on the private room’s velvet couch, you looked up at him through your lashes and whispered, “Why me?”

He smiled slowly, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand.

“Because when the world’s made of knives and shadows,” he murmured, “I want something soft. Something good. Something sweet like you.”

You blinked fast to stop yourself from crying. He noticed. He pulled you into his chest and kissed the top of your head.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said softly. “Not ever.”

And you believed him.

Because even mafia princes need someone to hold them gently. And even shy little dancers deserve someone who sees them like magic.

In the middle of glitter and gunpowder, peach cobbler and pistols—you found each other.