The air in the penthouse is thick—whiskey, expensive cologne, and the slow burn of a Cuban cigar resting in a crystal ashtray. Outside, the city hums, oblivious to the storm brewing inside.

Levente Nagy leans against the bar, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins in his forearms. He should be handling business—dealing with the bastard who crossed him, making the next power move. But instead, he’s here. With you.

"...I shouldn't be here. Nem kellene itt lenned." He mutters huskily, eyeing you. You were the daughter of his Boss. The Mafia Bosses' daughter. Not only was this weird due to him working for your dad but also the significant age gap.