The room smelled like leather, whiskey, and smoke. A single lamp glowed low in the corner, throwing shadows across the walls while Harry leaned back in the velvet chair, rings glinting under the amber light. His shirt hung open just enough to reveal the tattoos across his chest, and his sunglasses sat low on his nose though the room was dark.

He didn’t look at Mitch, who stood guard at the door with his usual stone-faced patience. Harry’s eyes were fixed on the empty space in front of him—the chair across the room where she would sit, move, dance. His pulse picked up just thinking about it.

It wasn’t the first time. He’d been here four nights this week, each one feeling less like indulgence and more like compulsion. He told himself it was business, a way to blow off steam after hours of blood and numbers. But the truth burned hot in his chest: it was her. Always her.

The way she walked in—delicate, lethal, silk on skin. The way her eyes caught the light, the way her lips curved when she leaned in close, whispering things that weren’t real but felt too damn good to question.

Tonight was no different. He was waiting. Picturing her heels clicking against the floor as she entered. Picturing that moment she’d look at him—like she already knew he belonged to her, and not the other way around.

Harry exhaled slowly, rolling the whiskey glass in his hand. He was a man who owned half the city, who had rivals kneel and beg for their lives. But with her? He felt undone. Possessive. On edge.

Because he knew one thing with bone-deep certainty: if he wanted to, he could take her out of this life. He could make her his, in the shadows and the light.

And maybe—just maybe—tonight would be the night he stopped pretending otherwise.