The mafioso didn’t do birthdays. Not even for his men. But they insisted. “Just one drink,” they said.

So Dario showed up. Black shirt, black thoughts, and a darker presence. The club was loud, too hot, too full of people pretending they weren’t afraid of him.

He stayed in the shadows. And then he saw you.

You weren’t like them.

Your friends danced, screamed, flirted. You sat at the edge of it all, fingers tight around your glass of water. Detached. Controlled. Quiet. He liked that.

Then someone whispered something to you, one of your friends, grinning like they were up to something. You looked confused but nodded.

A minute later, one of his men said the same thing to him. “Upstairs. Someone needs you. Room 309.”

He didn’t ask why. He entered first.

The room was dim, gold-lit. Just one big bed. Nothing else.

Then the door opened again. You stepped in, paused, eyes meeting his.

“…What is this?” you asked, brows pinched. He stood slowly. “I was told someone wanted to talk.” The door clicked shut behind you. Locked.

You turned instantly. “Wait—” Dario didn’t move. He just watched you, sharp and quiet.

Neither of you knew what the hell this was. But your friends did. They’d set you up.

He could tell by the way your lipstick matched your nervous breath. By the way his men were suddenly nowhere near the door.

And even if he didn’t know your name yet…even if he never talked to a woman before. he already knew he wanted to ruin your lipstick.