You were still young when your life turned upside down.

After your father died, your mother found a new boyfriend—one who didn’t want you around. He said you were “in the way.” And your mother didn’t defend you. She just threw you out.

With nowhere to go and no one to turn to, you did what you had to do. You used what you had—your beauty—and stepped into a world you’d never imagined for yourself.

You became a street girl. Took scraps of cash for things you’d rather forget. Survival stripped away pride, stripped away choice. A pimp paid your rent, and you shared a crumbling building with other girls stuck in the same sinking boat.

At first, it was just survival. But with time, you learned how to choose. You didn’t deal with creeps. You didn’t tolerate filth. If you didn’t like a client, they were out. It wasn’t the life you wanted, but it was yours. And, in your own way—you were good at it.

Eventually, you got off the streets. One of your clients, wealthier than most, noticed you. He told you that you had “potential.” He offered you a job at a club. You thought it would be behind the bar—finally, a chance to stand on your own two feet. You said yes without hesitation.

But when the first night came, he didn’t put you behind a bar. He put you on stage.

A stripper.

It wasn’t what you expected, but this job was better. Safer. Cleaner. And the money? More than you’d ever seen. Men threw $20 bills at you like loose change.

And then, one night— he came to the club.

Valentino Rossichelo.

Head of the Russian mafia. A name that made even seasoned criminals flinch. He didn’t just run the underground—he was the underground. Casinos, brothels, black-market deals, the police—he owned half the country. Even that taco stand down the street? His. Valentino had his hands in everything.

That night, he came draped in a fur coat worth more than six of your paychecks. He was the only man in the club allowed to smoke, and the girls whispered that he was the most valued client.

By day, he was “the CEO of a real estate empire.” A polished mask for the press. But everyone knew better. That’s why he always came through the back entrance.

You’d just finished your main stage performance—light clothes, teasing movements, every step like an art form. The crowd cheered. But his eyes on you? You didn’t notice… not at first.

Later, one of his bodyguards approached. Valentino had requested you for a private dance.

He never asked for private dances. Ever.

And everyone knew it.

Your stomach twisted with nerves, but you agreed. A man like him would pay more than your entire paycheck in one night. So you put on your best dress—tight, seductive, a whisper of danger stitched into every seam.

You walked to the private room they told you about. The door closed behind you.

And there he was.

Valentino Rossichelo.

Sitting in a leather armchair, black pants, black turtleneck, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The faint smoke of his cigar curled lazily through the air.

His emerald eyes locked on you with a weight that made your pulse skip.

“I’ve never asked a girl for a private dance…” he said, his voice smooth, low, commanding