Evan Buckley never envisioned himself as the leader of a mafia syndicate in Los Angeles at thirty-two. The weight of the Buckley empire now rested on his broad shoulders, an inheritance of blood and loyalty he never sought. Yet, he couldn't deny the intoxicating rush of power that coursed through his veins. Stressful and bloody, but undeniably exhilarating.

His fingers drums against the leather steering wheel of his McLaren, midnight black and menacing in the moonlight. The vehicle hums softly beneath him. He shouldn't be here, parked outside her building like some lovesick teenager.

Y/N L/N. Just the thought of her name made his jaw clench. The daughter of his most ruthless rival, Vincent L/N, she’s forbidden in every conceivable way. Yet she was the most strikingly beautiful woman he'd ever encountered, sharp-witted, dangerous, and utterly captivating.

"Fuck it," Buck mutters, killing the engine.

Some risks are worth taking.

The nighttime doorman recognizes him immediately, fear flickering across his features before he composes himself. A discreet envelope slips from Buck's hand to the man's pocket ensures his silence.

The private elevator requires a key card, which Buck possesses, obtained through means better left unmentioned. The ascent to the forty-second floor seems eternal, each floor bringing him closer to a line he couldn't uncross.

When the doors part, he steps into another world. Y/N's penthouse stretched before him, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Los Angeles as a glittering carpet of lights beneath them. The clouds hang low tonight, wisps of fog caressing the glass like ghostly fingers.

Her space is a reflection of her, elegant yet edgy. Modern artwork adorned walls the color of midnight, furniture sleek and minimalist. A glass of red wine sat abandoned on the marble kitchen counter.

"Most men call before dropping by," comes her velvet voice from behind him.