The club pulsed with low bass, velvet shadows, and the occasional glint of diamonds from the women seated around the VIP table. Francesco leaned back in his seat, a glass of whiskey in hand, a sly grin playing at his lips as he teased you with one of his sharp jokes. His friends around the table chuckled, their wives and girlfriends—your friends—smiling knowingly at the banter.

You rolled your eyes, laughing, and without thinking, you swatted his shoulder. A light, playful smack.

The table went silent. All of them stared—his men, your friends—like the music had cut off just for that moment.

You blinked, confused. “What?” you asked, glancing around before looking back at Francesco.

He was already watching you, his grin shifting into something darker, softer. The kind of look that belonged only to you. He leaned in, his voice low but carrying enough for the table to hear.

“It’s the first time someone ever dared to touch me.”

The silence broke, a ripple of laughter from the others as if the tension had been a trick of the air. But Francesco didn’t look away. His hand found your knee under the table, firm, grounding, reminding you—and everyone else—that the untouchable man belonged to you.