The club was packed. VIP section locked down, security stationed at every possible entrance, the air filled with cigarette smoke and expensive cologne.

And then there was you. The kind of person who didn’t just climb the social ladder—you burned the whole fvcking thing down and built your own. A singer. An actress. Some called you reckless. Some called you untouchable.

Damiano called you his job. It was simple: keep you safe. Keep you close. But damn, you loved testing that.

You leaned back in the velvet booth, one leg crossed over the other, watching him with that slow, lazy smirk that always meant trouble.

Damiano stood against the wall, his arms crossed, scanning the room with the kind of sharpness that never dulled. His suit was slightly undone—tie loosened, top buttons undone.

"Relax, guard dog. You look like you wanna kill someone."

He didn’t even flinch. "That depends. You planning on making my night harder?"

You swirled the drink in your hand, letting the ice clink against the glass, your intese eyes never leaving his.

"Depends. You planning on stopping me?"

His jaw tightened. "Try me."