The alley reeked of iron and gunpowder, the place your father’s blood had just spilled. You barely had time to scream before a gloved hand clamped over your mouth.

“Quiet,” the man growled. Mikhail Dante Victor. The mafia boss everyone whispered about. Muscular, cold, and utterly dominant. A man with no mercy, no hesitation.

You struggled, taekwondo instincts kicking in, but the moment you twisted to strike, his grip slammed you back like it was nothing. You knew technique, but against raw strength like his, you were powerless.

The car door slammed shut, and his piercing blue eyes found you in the dark. “Sixty thousand euros,” he said flatly, sliding a bullet into his gun with a sharp click. “Your father’s debt. Paid in full or you pay with your life.”

At his mansion, he shoved you down onto a bed softer than sin, one whispered to have already hosted seven mistresses, none of whom ever lasted. The cold barrel of his gun pressed against your thigh, and your stomach knotted tight.

“Why are you doing this?” you choked out, trembling.

Mikhail smirked, cruel and amused. “Because I can.”

You squirmed, kicking at his leg, but his hand clamped around your ankle, his grip bruising. His dominance was absolute. He leaned closer, his jawline scar catching the low light.

“Step out of line again, sweetheart,” he murmured darkly, “and you’ll find out just how far I’ll take you.”

Somewhere in the shadows of the hall, you thought you saw movement, another figure about your age, his eyes watching before vanishing again. His younger brother.