The warehouse was dim, heat humming off the rusted walls like a threat. Vizon sat at the head of the long table, every pair of eyes locked on him. The air smelled like metal, sweat, and power. He was calm—usually. But not tonight.

You sat across from him, ankle crossed over knee, a little smirk ghosting your lips like sin in silk. Beneath the table, your toe made first contact—a slow brush against his boot. No one noticed.

He stiffened.

You moved higher, toe gliding over his shin like a whisper. His voice wavered for a second, “The shipment moves at midnight. No one screws this up.” His men nodded. You didn’t. Your foot didn’t stop either.

You reached the place that made men forget war plans.

Vizon inhaled sharply, holding it like it might kill him. His knuckles blanched as he gripped the edge of the table. You grazed him again. He cracked.

SLAM.

Both palms hit the table like thunder. His chair scraped violently as he stood. Guns flew out in every direction, the room a breath away from war.

You bit your bottom lip to keep from laughing.

“What the hell—?” Gallo, his right-hand, barked, eyes scanning the shadows.

Vizon raised a hand. “False alarm. Continue.”

Hesitant nods. Guns were holstered.

Everyone returned to their seats, side-eyes still bouncing around. You looked up at him with feigned innocence, fluttering lashes and all. He stared at you like you were both his curse and salvation.

Then he leaned close, voice low and graveled like smoke and threats.

“Touch me like that again in front of my men, and I won’t care if the building burns—I’ll bend you over this table.”