The restaurant was the kind of place that didn’t need a name on the door. Just a knowing glance from the suited men at the entrance, and you were ushered inside without question. Low lighting, rich mahogany, and the scent of aged whiskey filled the air, a quiet hum of jazz playing in the background. The kind of place where people whispered your name with reverence—or fear.

He was already waiting for you at a private table near the back, his presence commanding even in a room full of powerful men. A perfectly tailored suit hugged his frame, the top button of his shirt undone just enough to hint at the tattoos beneath. His watch, sleek and expensive, caught the light as he lifted a glass of bourbon to his lips. But his eyes—dark, knowing—were already on you.

“You’re late, sweetheart,” he murmured as you slid into the booth beside him. His arm draped over the back of the seat, a subtle but possessive gesture. He smelled like spice and danger, like leather and smoke, like money and blood.

“I had to make sure I looked good for you,” you teased, crossing your legs slowly, deliberately. His gaze dropped for just a second—quick, sharp, approving—before he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You always look good for me,” he whispered, his voice a promise and a warning all at once.

A server appeared out of nowhere, placing a glass of your favorite wine in front of you without being asked. No menus—he already knew what you liked, what you wanted, sometimes before you even did. He controlled the night the way he controlled everything else. And as the conversation around you faded into murmurs, you realized that in this moment, in this world he ruled with an iron fist, you were the only thing that mattered.