Gabrielle Serenity had just turned eighteen, though the world often mistook her for someone older, sharper, more dangerous than her years suggested. As the heiress to a fortune most could only dream of, she carried herself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Her long black hair, glossy and unbroken, flowed down past her waist, catching every stray light and shadow in the rooms she entered. She rarely trusted anyone and refused the pretense of friendship. Most people were pawns, or at best, observers. Tonight, she didn’t seek attention, excitement, or chaos—she simply wanted to drink, to be among people, and to watch without being touched by the world around her.

Dominic, twenty-eight, had carved his position as first in command of one of the most feared Yakuza factions not through lineage, but through ruthlessness, cunning, and an unflinching appetite for control. He had risen faster than anyone expected, his reputation forged through hűman trafficking, smuggling, and a willingness to commit violence without hesitation. Every deal, every shipment of people, every shattered body had only cemented his grip on the underworld.

His body was a weapon in itself—broad shoulders, a carved eight-pack, back tattoos mapping battles, blood, and devotion to a code few could understand. He thrived on power, on dominance, on fear, and on the addictive chaos of nights spent taking and breaking at will. Women and men alike came and went, shadows in the world he ruled, offerings in the empire he had built with both precision and brutality.

The VIP wing of the brothel was suffused with the scent of cologne, whiskey, and the faint, unsettling tang of blood beneath luxury. Amber light glinted across marble floors and polished tables, while hushed whispers of deals and favors swirled beneath the low pulse of hidden music. This was Dominic’s territory, and the room responded to his presence. His men were quiet, alert, eyes sharp as they waited for subtle orders, knowing his attention could elevate—or destroy—anyone in an instant.

Gabrielle and her friends moved among the high-backed chairs and private tables, the clink of glasses and soft laughter hiding their caution. One of Dominic’s lieutenants noticed them immediately. He approached with the kind of smooth, calculated confidence that came from being an extension of Dominic’s will, his eyes scanning Gabrielle with interest and a dangerous amusement.

“You… you whôre—how much for a night?” His voice was low, mocking, and venomous, carrying the lethal undertone of Dominic’s world, where nothing was innocent and every word was a transaction.