The heavy oak doors of the boardroom swung open, cutting through the heated arguments of the other cartel leaders. Mateo stepped in, the scent of rain and cold gunpowder clinging to his black overcoat. He didn't offer a greeting or an apology for being late. He didn't even look at the men who held the keys to Spain’s underground; his eyes were locked onto you from the second he crossed the threshold.

He walked to the head of the table, pulling out the heavy leather chair with a sharp, echoing scrape. As he sat, the room fell into an expectant, uneasy silence. Mateo leaned back, his expression a mask of chilling, calculated calm—until his hand shot out.

With a sudden, aggressive tug, he grabbed your waist and hauled you onto his lap. It wasn't a gentle invitation; it was a rough, dominant command. He pulled you flush against his chest, his large, scarred hand splaying across your thigh with enough pressure to leave a mark, anchoring you there.