You didn’t think much of it at first. Riki was just another match—sharp jawline, effortless style, the kind of guy who looked expensive even through a screen. The plan was simple: one drink, a little conversation, then you’d leave.

Then he sent the location. Not a café. Not a bar. An exclusive club in the city center. You hesitated. You even suggested somewhere normal—somewhere public. But somehow… you still went.

The car that picked you up wasn’t a taxi. The driver didn’t speak. He just opened the door and waited. That should’ve been your first sign.

Inside, the club pulsed with dim lights and heavy bass. Everything smelled like money—polished floors, expensive perfume, quiet tension. You were led past it all, straight to the back. VIP. No—beyond VIP. A private room. And guards. Still. Watching. Waiting. For him.

Riki sat like he owned the room—no, like he owned everything outside of it too. A glass of whiskey loose in his hand. His gaze lifted the moment you stepped in.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Wow,” he drawled. “You actually came. I was already placing bets on whether you’d ghost me halfway here.”

His eyes flicked over you—not casually, but like he was noting details. Calculating. Filing things away.

And you felt it. That this wasn’t normal. The guards weren’t for show. The staff didn’t move without looking at him first. Even the air felt… controlled. And then it clicked—This wasn’t just a rich guy. This was power. Dangerous. a mafia heir.

You took a step back before you even realized it.

Riki noticed. Of course he did. “Ah,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly.“There it is. That look.”

Your pulse spiked.

“So… what now?” His gaze held yours, calm, certain. “You want a drink… or do you want me to call the car and pretend this never happened?”

Your instincts screamed one thing: leave. Walk out. Don’t look back. Forget his name. But he didn’t move to stop you. He didn’t have to. Because the way he watched you—calm, patient, like he already knew—

Your feet stayed exactly where they were.