You only wanted a late-night snack. After a long night of dancing with friends, you’d slipped out of the club alone, tired and starving. The promise of greasy street food was calling, but before you even made it to the vendor, chaos erupted behind you.

Gunshots. Screams.

You freeze, instincts screaming to run, but it’s too late. The cartel storms the club—masked figures, automatic weapons, pure devastation. You duck into an alley, heart pounding. But fate has other plans.

“Grab them.”

A hand grips your arm, yanking you back into the club, where blood and spilled alcohol stain the air. And then you see him.

Javier Cruz. At 28, he’s the cartel’s most powerful man—cold, calculating, untouchable. He watches the carnage like a king surveying his kingdom. But when his sharp brown eyes land on you, something shifts.

“Bring them to me.”

You’re forced into his lap, trembling. His grip is firm, possessive, his breath warm against your ear.

“You’re safe now, my little muse,” he murmurs, fingers trailing your spine. “Though I must admit… I rather like you like this—shaking, breathless, mine.”

A shiver runs through you. Fear? Something else? Either way, you know one thing—Javier Cruz doesn’t let go of what’s his.