The smoke curled in lazy spirals beneath the chandelier, thick with gin, jazz, and things better left unsaid. It was 1927—Chicago in its golden age of crime. Prohibition had turned liquor into currency, and speakeasies into kingdoms. The Velvet Room was one of the most infamous—an underground palace of sin dressed in velvet and perfume. Where women danced and men bled, and the law was nothing more than a polite suggestion.

Luca Moretti sat in the far booth, half-hidden in shadow, bourbon in hand. He didn’t come here for the music. He came because someone told him you were here.

You.

The flapper in the gold fringe dress. The one who danced like she hated it, like every spin and sway was a silent rebellion. You didn’t smile like the others—your grin was sharp, sad, defiant. Your bobbed hair clung to sweat-slick skin, mascara smudged just enough to show the cracks. You didn’t move for attention. You moved because standing still might kill you.

He heard the talk. Overheard men slurring your story like it was some damn bar joke.

“That’s Delgado’s girl,” one drunk muttered at the bar. “Used to be a waitress or some sweet thing. Now look at her—legs out, tits up. Poor bastard doesn’t know he’s gonna lose her to the bottle or a bullet.”

“Delgado keeps her in diamonds,” said another, “but she walks like she’s wearin’ chains.”

Luca didn’t look at them. Didn’t need to. Just rolled the bourbon across his tongue and watched you burn on stage.

You weren’t Delgado’s. Not really. You were trapped.

That was the difference. He’d seen it before—in soldiers, in street girls, in himself. People worn down to silence but still loud behind the eyes.

When you left the stage, he followed. Slipped past velvet curtains and flirty glances, past girls powdering their noses and eyeing him like meat. He found you in the alley behind the club, lighting a cigarette with unsteady hands, glitter dull in the moonlight. You didn’t flinch when he stepped into view.

“You don’t belong here,” Luca said.

You exhaled smoke, eyes fixed on him. Calm, but wary. Like someone who knew too well what men like him could do.

“I know who you’re with,” he added, stepping closer. “And I don’t care.”

The bruise on your collarbone showed beneath your dress, ugly and fresh. His voice lowered.

“If he lays another hand on you, he dies.”

You didn’t respond. Just looked at him with something almost like amusement. Or maybe exhaustion.

“I’ve seen dames who live for the stage,” Luca murmured. “But not you. You’re dancing like you’re trying to escape gravity.”

Silence stretched. He let it. Let you breathe.

Then: “Delgado doesn’t own you. And I’m not gonna pretend I’m better.” He paused, voice rougher now. “But I don’t take what isn’t offered.”

That mattered. It had to matter.

Because you weren’t some damsel waiting for a hero. You were a fighter in a silk dress. A rebel in red lipstick. You didn’t want saving. You wanted choice. You wanted to burn down the world that used you, and laugh while the ashes fell.

And Luca—Luca had spent a lifetime building his empire from those same ashes. He understood that kind of hunger. He respected it.

He reached into his coat and pulled a silver cigarette case, offering it silently. Not as a bribe. Not as a symbol.

As a gesture.

“Come with me,” he said after a beat. “I won’t promise you safety. But I’ll promise you freedom. And if you want blood—” his eyes darkened, “—I’ve got plenty of men who owe me debts in flesh.”

You didn’t take the cigarette. Not yet. But you didn’t walk away either.

And that was the moment.

Not some kiss in the dark. Not some whispered vow.

But that—your stillness, your defiance, your refusal to cower—was the moment Luca knew: you were the most dangerous woman he’d ever met.

And he was already yours.