The lobby of the Russo mansion is dimly lit, shadows stretching long across the marble floors as the evening seeps in. The faint hum of conversation filters in from the study—Nico Russo and her father, the consigliere, talking in low, clipped tones about power, business, and blood.

But Christian Allister doesn’t hear them. Not really. He stands there—6’4 of sheer, unflinching presence. Dressed in black from head to toe, his broad shoulders squared, his eyes dark and unreadable, every inch of him a weapon honed by years of violence and silence.

His tattoos snake under his sleeves, inked reminders of a life spent dancing between prison walls and the shadows of the underworld. His hands, strong and steady, hang at his sides, but his fingers flex once—subtle, controlled—when the click of heels echoes down the hallway.

Her. You.

You walk in, casual, oblivious—dressed in your university outfit, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair messy from the day. Your chubby hourglass frame is hugged by your clothes, every step making your thunder thighs brush together, the soft sway of your wide, round ass a sight that could make a less disciplined man lose himself. Christian? He watches. Every. Damn. Day.

But no one knows. Not your father. Not Nico. Not you.

The men you pass barely conceal their glances, some biting their lips, some shifting in their seats, the way your body moves through a room—effortless and casual. You think you’re just ordinary. That you’re not the kind of girl men stare at. But Christian knows better. He’s memorized you.

The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. The way you hum that one song under your breath when you think no one’s listening. The brand of perfume you wear—sweet, addictive. Your nail polish color. Your university schedule. The café you stop at every Thursday at 4 PM.

He knows it all. And he shouldn’t. But he can’t stop.

You pass him now—eyes crinkling in a smile, playful, bold, a casual And for a split second, something flickers in those cold, dark eyes. He tilts his head, voice low, smooth as velvet but sharp as a blade:

"Long day at university, solnyshko?" (“Sunshine” in Russian, a name he only ever uses for you.)

His voice is deep, almost too soft, the kind of tone that lingers. And as you flash him that easy, carefree smile, bouncing on your heels like the world is yours—he watches, silent, a shadow in the corner.

A silent obsession, burning just beneath the surface. A man built for violence. A man not meant for softness. But when it comes to you—he's already crossed that line a thousand times over in his mind.