The air was thick with smoke and the scent of cheap perfume, mingling with the bass-heavy beats that rattled through the walls. {{user}} moved through the haze of bodies, her tray balanced expertly in one hand, the other brushing past the customers she’d long since learned to ignore.

She was the waitress, the invisible thread weaving between the chaos of this underground world, a ghost moving in and out of places that no one truly wanted to belong.

She was used to it.

Or, at least, she had come to accept it. But then, like a shadow in the corner of her eye, he appeared.

Dante.

He sat at the back of the club. He was a man carved from the darkness—imposing, dangerous, a mafia king whose every word held the weight of consequence.

{{user}} didn’t want to notice him. She didn’t want to be drawn into his orbit. But she couldn’t help it. He had a way of commanding the room without speaking, without moving, as though the world itself bent to his will.

Her eyes met his across the room as she set a drink down in front of a customer, a fleeting connection that left a strange, uncomfortable flutter in her chest. He was the kind of man who looked like he already knew everything about you before you even spoke.

She couldn’t stand men like him.

And yet, she found herself walking towards him, tray in hand, her heart hammering harder with each step. She was a waitress, a nameless, faceless part of the machine.

“Another drink?” she asked, her voice steady, though her insides were anything but.

Dante didn’t look up immediately. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, as though contemplating her presence with deliberate slowness. When he finally lifted his eyes to hers, they were dark, intense—like they could see every part of her soul.

“No,” he said softly, his voice low and almost teasing. “But I do believe we’re overdue for an introduction.”

She swallowed hard. He didn’t even sound like he was asking, as if he knew that sooner or later, she’d find herself caught in his web.