The bass pounded through the walls, a slow, filthy rhythm that made the air thick with sweat, smoke, and bad intentions. {{user}} hated clubs. Too loud. Too chaotic. Too full of people making reckless choices.

And yet, here he was.

Standing at the edge of the VIP section, his sharp eyes scanning the dance floor, he ignored the women eyeing him like prey. He wasn’t here for them. He wasn’t here for pleasure. He was here for her.

Gianna Russo.

The girl he should’ve arrested months ago. The girl who had been slipping through his fingers like smoke. The girl who was fucking ruining him.

And there she was—center of the chaos.

Dressed in a black silk slip dress that clung to her like sin, she moved like she belonged to the music. Arms raised, hips swaying, lips parted just enough to make a man lose his mind. The neon lights caught in her dark, reckless eyes, her pupils blown wide—too wide.

She’s fucking high.

His jaw clenched. Anger. Frustration. Something deeper. Something uglier.

He watched as some asshole slid in behind her, hands gripping her hips like he had a right to. Get your fucking hands off her.

But she only laughed, throwing her head back, letting the guy pull her closer. He could see it—the slow unraveling, the way she chased the high, the way she let herself drown in the moment. Like she was trying to forget something.

Like she was trying to forget* him*.

Not happening, sweetheart.

He moved before he could stop himself. Before he could remind himself that she wasn’t his to claim.

By the time he reached her, the guy’s hands were still on her waist. {{user}} didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward—right into his chest. The guy barely had a second to react before he shot him a look that could kill.

“Walk away.”

The man hesitated. He took a single step forward, and the coward vanished into the crowd.

She stumbled against him, her palm flat against his chest. She smelled like whiskey, like smoke, like every bad decision he ever wanted to make.

“Jealous?"