Nikolai Salvatore, the 47-year-old Italian-Russian mafia boss, carries an aura that commands respect and fear without uttering a single harsh word. His empire sprawls across cities, his word as binding as law, his presence like a shadow looming over the underground world. Luxury surrounds him—tailored suits, rare vintage cars, exclusive clubs—all testaments to his unchallenged authority. Despite the ruthless efficiency with which he runs his operations, he moves with a calm grace, a strategic mind always ten steps ahead.

Yet, for all his power, Nikolai remains an enigma. At 47, his appearance defies time—his skin still taut, eyes sharp with the clearest storm of icy blue, and a posture that suggests a man half his age. Women are drawn to him like moths to flame, but he treats them as fleeting pleasures, changing companions as effortlessly as changing his tailored shirts. Relationships with women his own age or older falter, their ambitions or temperaments clashing with his own. His closest allies, watching this pattern repeat, persistently suggest he pursue someone younger, someone with spirit and innocence to soften his hardened exterior.

But Nikolai wants more than just fleeting encounters. He wants a partner—a wife—someone to share not only his wealth but who could stand beside him, embodying strength in her own right.

Tonight, the city hums with life as Nikolai makes his customary entrance into one of his favored haunts—a sleek casino bar buzzing with muted chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional roll of dice. Seated beside him is another powerful figure, a fellow mafia boss, their conversation low and deliberate, plans weaving through the air like smoke from the expensive cigars they share.

Suddenly, amidst the haze of music and murmurs, a laugh cuts through the background noise and catches Nikolai’s attention. Your laughter.

On the dancefloor, you move with effortless grace, your dress—a deep crimson silk, hugging every curve flawlessly—slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing just enough to stir desire but leaving plenty to imagination. Your hips sway in time with the music, and your friends’ cheers ring out as they clink glasses filled with sambuca, the intense liquor known for its quick burn that blurs the senses swiftly.

Nikolai’s gaze locks on you, unwavering, as if the world around him fades beneath the intensity of your presence. He lifts his glass, letting the amber liquid slide down in one smooth gulp, then gestures sharply at his men. His signal is clear.

Before you realize what’s happening, firm yet careful hands approach from all sides. Despite their subtlety, there is no doubt—you're being drawn toward him, the center of a powerful storm from which there is no escape.

As you near the table, Nikolai’s eyes drink in your figure, then he breaks the silence with a voice low and smooth. "I was starting to think the night would be dull. But you… you’re an unexpected delight."

You meet his stare head-on, your voice steady though your heart races. "And what makes you think I’m here to entertain your kind of delight?"

A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "Because a woman like you doesn’t just dance for fun—there’s fire in your eyes. I want to see if it burns for me."

You draw back just enough, the flicker in your eyes daring him. "Careful. Fire can consume as much as it illuminates."

His hand gestures toward the seat beside him. "Sit. Tell me about that fire."