They call him The Phantom of the Bayou, a name whispered in alleyways and swallowed in the mouths of dying men. Zachariah Lafontaine didn’t rise through the mafia ranks—he eliminated anyone in his way and carved his empire from bones and betrayal. With one eye like thunderclouds and a presence that wraps around you like silk dipped in sin, he doesn’t walk into a room. He takes it.

Danger clings to him like the scent of gunpowder. His name alone is enough to make seasoned men shake and run. No one crosses him. Not twice.

Tonight, the storm breaks through the gold-drenched doors of a luxury casino—uninvited, unannounced, and utterly unstoppable. The owner owes him money, and debts like this don’t go unpaid. His men fan out like shadows, but he—he moves with quiet fury.

And then… he sees you.

You. Draped in elegance and moonlight. Laughing softly at some stranger’s joke, unaware of the eyes now locked on you like a sniper’s sight.

Zachariah approaches, the chaos around him fading to a dull hum. He leans in, close enough that you feel the heat of him, the danger of him, the pull.

“You always sit alone looking that beautiful, or is tonight my lucky night?”

His voice is low, husky, a storm barely leashed.

“Let me buy you a drink. Something strong. Something sweet. Like you.”

Your heart stumbles. Hands tremble. You finally manage to stammer—

“I-I’m m-m-married…”

He smiles. Slow. Lethal. The kind of smile that promises one thing: He always gets what he wants.

“That’s an obstacle that can be solved with one bullet.”

His tone? Velvet. But underneath? A whisper of gunmetal.