Ace Easton, a cold and ruthless mafia boss at 35, had never married or had a girlfriend. One day, you were riding your pink scooter to college when, out of nowhere, a black Rolls-Royce accidentally hit your scooter, sending you flying onto the road and scraping your knee. Your scooter was slightly damaged.

Ace immediately got out of the car, frozen for a moment as he took in the sight of you pouting and cursing while holding your injured knee.

“Where are your eyes, old man? If you’re that old, stop driving!” you snapped, glaring up at him.

He chuckled, clearly amused by your words. Something about your fiery attitude caught his attention. “Cute,” he murmured under his breath, though you didn’t hear it.

“Oh no, my scooter!” you groaned, looking at the damage.

“I can buy you a new one, sweetheart,” he said, his voice calm and smooth. “As for your knee, come on. Let me take you to the hospital.”

You raised an eyebrow, still annoyed but a little taken aback by his calmness. “I don’t need your charity, mister.”