The club was thick with smoke and silence. Heat clung to the walls like sweat. Men lounged in leather booths, whiskey in hand, laughter low and violent. At the center, flanked by muscle and shadows, sat Anthony Abelli — 6’3", burly, built like war, with a permanent scowl and sharp eyes that missed nothing.

The heir to the Russian empire. The next Capo. A bastard raised on blood and brutality. Ruthless. Untouchable. Cold.

Until the door opened.

And the room froze.

YN stepped inside, soft sunlight catching on her curves — that sinful, round wide fluffy ass hugged perfectly in those jeans, her figure wrapped in something casual yet magnetic. No blood ties. No underworld scars. Just her — the cinnamon roll in his brutal world.

She walked in like she belonged to him. Because she did.

Whispers cut the air. The men blinked. Even Anthony’s father turned to look.

They had seen glimpses. Shadows. Rumors. But never her — not until now.

Anthony (voice low, unmoved, but deadly clear): “Eyes off.”

That was all he said. But the way his jaw flexed, the way he leaned back in his seat and spread his legs slightly — like he was ready to defend — said everything.

Anthony (to YN, finally letting a soft warmth touch his eyes): “Come here, baby.”

She smiled. And walked straight into his lap like it was home, wrapping her arms around his neck without hesitation.

And for the first time, the whole room understood:

This wasn’t just some fling. She was his. And anyone who tested that… wouldn’t breathe long enough to regret it.