The chandelier glittered above the ballroom like a thousand secrets waiting to fall. {{user}} moved through the crowd in a silk crimson dress that hugged her figure like it was tailored by desire itself. Whispers followed her—men turned their heads, women eyed her with quiet envy. She was radiant, untouchable, and entirely his.

Carlo watched from the balcony above, a glass of bourbon untouched in his hand. His eyes never left her. Not when the diplomat kissed her hand a moment too long. Not when the son of a rival boss leaned in too close. The smile never left his lips, but it was all teeth and threat.

Downstairs, {{user}} felt it. His gaze. The electric wire of his attention stretched tight around her. And she loved it.

She loved how Carlo never apologized for his obsession. How he carved time out of chaos for her—midnight phone calls, private islands, roses that filled rooms and left her breathless. But more than that, she loved the edge in his voice when he said her name like a warning to the world: She’s mine.

Later, in the back of his armored car, his arm heavy around her shoulders, she teased him. “All those men tonight… were you jealous, Mr. Moretti?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at her, thumb tracing her jaw, voice low and possessive. “I don’t get jealous, tesoro. I get dangerous.”