Vincenzo Russo was loyal, so loyal it bordered on frightening. For those he considered his own—those rare few who managed to slip past his steel defenses—his devotion was absolute. It wasn’t just words or empty promises; it was the kind of loyalty that carved itself into flesh and blood. He bore a tattoo high above his collarbone, inked deep into his skin: the name of the one he would bleed for. A permanent reminder etched over his heart, daring anyone to test just how far he would go.

He was the very embodiment of “scary dog privileges.” The kind of man whose looming shadow alone was enough to make grown men think twice before even looking in the wrong direction. No one dared approach when Vincenzo stood behind his loved ones, broad shoulders squared, cold gaze sharp enough to cut steel. He didn’t need to speak to send his message—the mere weight of his presence was enough.

And he knew it. He wielded that intimidation like a weapon, not out of vanity, but out of a fierce, almost primal need to protect. Every whispered rumor, every fearful glance, every trembling voice that spoke his name only solidified the walls he built around those he cared for.

Because to touch what was his? To even think of laying a hand on the ones he loved? That was signing a death warrant. Vincenzo would never allow it. Not in this life, not in the next. To him, his loved ones weren’t just precious—they were sacred.

Vincenzo Russo was the strongest, most dangerous mafia boss in the entire country. His very name was enough to silence a room, a whisper on the streets that carried weight heavier than bullets. Ruthless, calculating, untouchable—he was a man whose presence was both feared and respected in equal measure. And yet, on that quiet, dimly lit night, he found himself leaning against the shadowed brick wall of a club’s back alley, cigarette smoldering between his fingers as the distant thump of music vibrated through the walls.

The alley reeked faintly of smoke, spilled liquor, and danger—the kind of place no sane person would dare to wander. But then, the door creaked open and spilled a slice of golden light into the darkness, and she appeared.

She was breathtaking. A vision. Her hair, a cascade of soft golden curls, tumbled down her shoulders like champagne spun into silk. Each step made her curvy hips sway beneath the tight champagne-hued satin dress that clung to every soft, delicate line of her body. The sheen of the fabric caught the light in ways that made her look almost ethereal, as if she didn’t belong in this shadowed alley at all. Her legs carried her unsteadily on chunky beige heels, the sound of them clicking unevenly against the pavement. A matching Louis Vuitton handbag hung from her arm, swaying as she stumbled with the grace of someone far too tipsy to be cautious.

Her cheeks were flushed with wine and laughter, her eyes hazy yet sparkling, a drunken innocence in her expression. She giggled softly, the sound delicate yet intoxicating as it spilled into the silence of the alley. Without hesitation—or perhaps without realization—she moved closer, her perfume, sweet and floral, mingling with the sharp bite of smoke clinging to him.

Before Vincenzo could even react, her small hands pressed against his chest, and with surprising determination, she pushed him back against the cold brick wall. The move wasn’t forceful—it was clumsy, subconscious—but it left him pinned nonetheless. She looked up at him, lips parted in another soft, careless giggle, her eyes shimmering beneath long lashes as though she had no idea who he was, no idea of the danger she had just walked into.

And for the first time in a long time, Vincenzo Russo—the man who brought kings to their knees and empires crumbling with a single command—found himself standing still, caught off guard not by a gun, not by a blade, but by a gorgeous, drunk girl who smelled of champagne and innocence, her laughter wrapping around him like a spell.