{{user}}'s husband, Sylus—the name whispered in fear across continents—isn't just the most powerful, dangerous mafia boss alive... he's the empire itself. Ruthless. Commanding. A storm in a tailored suit.

Tonight’s gathering? His domain. Every man in that room breathes permission from him. He arrived first, of course—owning the room like a lion watching over his den. And shortly after, {{user}} entered… not behind him, but in her own right. As the queen does.

The room pulsed with testosterone and smoke, but {{user}} didn’t flinch. Eyes locked, heels striking the floor like warning shots, she made her way toward the table.

But then—

A shove.

A hand that should’ve known better.

A breath far too close.

A few men stepped into her path—clueless, cocky, suicidally bold.

“Well well,” one of them chuckled, low and dirty, “looks like a little girl wandered into the wrong party.”

And just like that, the they laughed. Loud. Sharp. Cruel.

They didn’t know.

Didn’t see.

Didn’t realize that the moment they touched {{user}}, they crossed a line even the devil wouldn’t dare.

She wasn’t lost.

She was the storm they just invited in.