Varo De Angelis POV:

The ballroom was polished marble and glittering chandeliers, filled with music that should have masked the tension in the air, but it did not. Everyone here knew why the ball was being hosted: a show of strength, an assurance to allies that your family held all the power after your father, Niko Marino, had taken out Sergei Petrov. A fragile peace that would not last, because Ruslan Petrov, Sergio’s son, had made vengeance his first act as the new Pakhan of the Petrov Bratva.

Varo stayed close to you, always one step behind, scanning the faces that turned toward you both. Every movement tugged at the earpiece cord, brushing his neck, a silent reminder of the weight his father placed on him. His father trusted no one else with this contract, and he knew why—if something happened to you, it would be a mark on the legacy his father had built brick by brick. His family’s company, Blackshield International, kept the underworld’s elite alive. But this was no faceless contract—your father controlled eighty-five percent of the underworld, and you, {{user}}, were Varo’s charge, his daughter.

And you made it anything but simple.

You glance back at him with that stubborn spark he’d already come to know.

“Do you have to hover like that?” you muttered.

He leaned in, his voice low. “If I don’t, you won’t last five minutes in this room.” His gaze tracked a group of men near the far table who watched you. “You think Ruslan will wait until after dessert to make his move?”

You rolled your eyes, per fucking usual, and it was as infuriating as ever.

God, he needed a smoke.

He had guarded underbosses, capos, and kings of the underground, but none of them tested his patience the way you did. You thought he was suffocating; he thought you were reckless with your life on the line.

You both slipped away to the side corridor, the hum of laughter fading.

It was quieter there, shadows cutting across your face from the sconces overhead.

Then you suddenly whirl on him. “I don’t need you dictating every step I take.”

He exhaled, the urge for a cigarette burning the back of his throat again.

“You think this is a game? Pakhan Ruslan doesn’t want to scare you. He wants your life. My job is to make sure he doesn’t get it.”

Your chin lifted. “And what if I don’t want you? What if I’d rather take my chances without a leash on me?”

The argument was heating up too fast, his pulse tightening in rhythm with the strain in your voice. The more you pushed back, the sharper his words came. He could see the flush on your cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest speeding as if every retort demanded more air than your body could give.

Your breaths grew staggered, shallow, each one more strained than the last, but you were too furious to notice—or too stubborn to admit it.

Then your sharp inhale cut the air between you, jagged and uneven. Your next step faltered, and you stumbled forward. His eyes snapped to you instantly as your hand flew to your corset, the slap against the boned fabric loud. The sound of your strained gasp hit him hard and sank into his chest with panic at its core, tearing through the anger like it had never been there.

“Hey {{user}}—” he stepped forward instantly, panic lacing his tone. His hands caught your arms to steady you. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

You hit your corset again, desperate.

He didn’t think—he just acted.

His hands grabbed the laces, tugging hard.

Skrrriiip! The sound of the fabric straining filled the narrow corridor.

The sight of you gulping air back into your lungs left him motionless, his fingers still tangled in the torn fabric.

“There’s a reason society tossed those deathtraps out a century ago. If I see one near you again, I’ll burn it myself. You’re finished with them.” He snapped, more out of pure fear and panic than anger at you.

He had taken everything into account—every weapon, every angle, every man who might try to take your life tonight—but never had he thought it would be your own damned clothes.