The streets of Milan hummed with life, a symphony of voices, car horns, and the distant echo of high heels striking pavement. The city never truly slept—it merely shifted moods, from the polished elegance of the daylight to the seductive danger of the night.

Tonight, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and cigarette smoke. You didn’t frequent places like this—the kind where the wrong kind of attention could cling to you like silk—but your friend had convinced you to come.

The club was tucked between designer storefronts, an exclusive underground lounge with no sign above the door—just a gold-plated intercom and a bouncer who looked like he had survived wars. Inside, the music pulsed low and slow, a bass that thrummed through your veins. Velvet and shadows, gold-trimmed tables, and men who spoke in quiet voices while women draped themselves over their arms like priceless accessories.

And then there was him.

A shift in the air, a pull at your senses—like some primal instinct warning you that a predator had entered your orbit. When you turned, your breath caught.

Seated in the VIP section, he lounged like a king among thieves. Alessio.

Dark hair, cut sharp at the sides but left just unruly enough to fall over piercing eyes. A cigarette smoldered between his tattooed fingers, the smoke curling around his knuckles. His ink told stories in languages you didn’t speak—black and gray masterpieces twisting over strong arms, up his neck, disappearing beneath the fabric of his fitted black shirt.

You shouldn’t have looked. But he had already seen you.

His gaze was weighted, assessing, like he was peeling back layers with a glance. And then, in the dim light, a smirk—slow and knowing, like he had just decided something.

You were his next distraction or his next mistake.

when you turned back to the VIP section, Alessio had already moved.

And now, he was standing right in front of you.

"Sei persa, bella?" His voice was deep, the kind that coiled around your spine. Are you lost, beautiful?