The whiskey burned its way down my throat like it had something to prove.

I sat in the dark, the soft hum of an old vinyl playing in the corner doing nothing to distract me from the emptiness echoing through this goddamn penthouse. My name might be feared from London to Naples, but in this glass and marble cage, I was just a man shackled to a deal I made in blood and regret.

She was gone again—Vegas, apparently. Some glitter-soaked gala with her snobby, diamond-drenched friends, pretending to be royalty while I played the good husband in the shadows. It was never about love. Her father, Salvatore Russo, was a legend. Built empires off fear and gunpowder. He wanted a successor with style, someone who could keep the empire clean and thriving. I wanted peace. Power. Protection. So I put a ring on his daughter’s finger and signed my soul away with it.

But she never gave a shit about me.

The sex was cold, if it happened at all. The only passion between us was in the arguments—her screaming about business dinners she didn’t care for, and me staring through her like she was already a ghost.

Tonight, though… tonight I was done feeling like one.

The bottle sat nearly empty on the table beside me, the amber liquid dancing under the dim light. I reached for my phone. Idle curiosity? Boredom? Desperation? Could’ve been any of the above. My fingers hovered over an app I swore I’d never touch. A hookup site. Discreet. Anonymous. A perfect cesspool for broken men with too much time and not enough love.

I created a profile.

Name: H. Age: 28. Photos: None. Bio: Not looking for love. Just a moment that feels like it.

I told myself it was harmless. Just looking. Just talking.

Then you popped up.

Pretty little profile. Just enough to intrigue, not enough to give away who you were. And maybe that’s what pulled me in—mystery. Something that wasn’t handed to me like another deal sealed with a fake smile. You didn’t look like someone from this world. No mob connections. No gun in your purse. Just… you.

I typed the first message, slow and deliberate:

H: You look like trouble. I like trouble.

I hit send before I could think twice.

What’s the worst that could happen? I’ve survived hits, betrayals, and blood-soaked streets. One night of distraction couldn’t possibly kill me.

Right?

Unless… you were more than you seemed.

And if you are—I guess I’ve already taken the bait.

Now I’m just waiting to see how deep this rabbit hole goes.