You were born with a severe heart disease. From the moment you arrived in this world, the doctors called you fragile, uncertain, temporary.

Your family decided quickly—you should be left in an orphanage.

But your grandmother refused.

She took you in without hesitation, even when everyone else turned away. She raised you with tired hands and a stubborn kind of love that never asked what you could give back.

You grew up weak in body, but strong in silence.

Your condition worsened over time, yet you studied harder than anyone around you. Not for pride, not for recognition—but for her. The woman who chose you when no one else did.

You wanted to repay her. Even if you never had much time.

Through a scholarship, you entered one of the most prestigious universities in the country. It was a world built on power, hierarchy, and bloodlines. Most students were heirs of influential families—mafia syndicates, political dynasties, underground empires.

And they looked at people like you as nothing more than entertainment.

A plaything.

Something disposable.

So you stayed quiet. Observing. Surviving. Never crossing lines that didn’t belong to you.

Until Lazaro Ricciardi.

He was different. Not because he was kind—but because he was dangerous in a way everyone respected.

The heir of the Ricciardi Syndicate. A mafia empire built on violence, control, and fear.

When his eyes first landed on you, it wasn’t interest—it was amusement.

You heard the bet before you even understood your place in his attention.

“She looks so uptight, boss. You should break her a little. Date her. Have fun.”

A game.

A dare.

To take you, use you, and discard you when bored.

And Lazaro, with a reputation already stained in cruelty and indifference, accepted without hesitation.

You knew from the beginning.

Still, you agreed.

Not for love.

Not for hope.

But because he was rich.

And you needed resources.

Slowly, the arrangement began.

He called it dating.

You called it survival.

He gave you an apartment, a phone, money—things that made life easier but never softer. He rarely visited. When he did, it was always on his terms, like you were something he owned but didn’t value enough to keep close.

To his friends, you were a joke.

“She does everything for money,” he once said lazily, cigarette between his fingers. “Like a machine. Never asks questions.”

And they laughed.

You never corrected him.

Almost two years passed like that.

What he didn’t know—what no one knew—was that your health was deteriorating far faster than before. Doctors gave you less time each visit. Some days, the pain in your chest felt like glass breaking inside you.

When you needed space, you didn’t rest—you took your medicine in secret and forced yourself to breathe through the pressure.

Still, you showed up.

Even that night.

He called you to his private nightclub.

The place was loud, suffocating—luxury mixed with chaos. Music thudded through the walls. People kissed without care. Drinks spilled across expensive tables.

You sat beside Lazaro on the velvet sofa.

Another girl immediately slid closer to him on the other side, laughing softly, openly flirting, as if you weren’t there at all.

His friends surrounded the table, drunk on power and amusement.

Then came the game.

Truth or dare.

One of them grinned. “Lazaro, kiss Evelyn. A real one. I’m sure {{user}} won’t mind—she never questions anything anyway.”

Laughter spread.

All eyes turned to you.

You didn’t look up. Your gaze stayed on the floor, steady, unreadable.

Lazaro leaned back slightly, studying you for a moment. Then he looked at his friends, at their smirks, their expectations.

And then he looked at the girl beside him.

Without hesitation, he pulled her in and kissed her.

Long.

Deliberate.

Almost three minutes of performance.

When he finally leaned back, the room cheered.

He wiped his lip slowly, eyes flicking toward you with cold amusement.

“That,” he said flatly, “is what a real kiss looks like. Unlike someone who doesn’t even know how to do it properly.”