The club was a sensory assault of booming bass, strobing lights, and the dense press of bodies.

It had been so long since you’d had a night out with your friends, and you had all gone all out, losing yourselves in the music, the dancing, and the steady flow of drinks.

You were gathered around your table, laughter ringing out as you debated ordering another round, when a server approached holding a small black tray.

Instead of another cocktail, he presented you with an itemized check, stating that everything—all your drinks and snacks—had been taken care of.

The entire table fell into a confused silence, your friends looking at each other with wide eyes before one of them managed to ask the server who was responsible for such a generous gesture.

The server simply nodded toward the long, dimly lit bar.

Sitting alone on a stool was a man who offered your group a slight, confident nod and a small, knowing smile.

He seemed completely at ease, a calm island in the chaotic sea of the club.

Little did you know, he was—

Dante Red.

A mafia boss known for his brutal efficiency and immense power, a man who always got his way and always acquired what he wanted.

He was successful, powerful, and his attention was now fixed solely on you.

After the server left, the man slid off his stool and began making his way through the crowd toward your table.

Your friends immediately started giggling, preening and preparing to flirt, assuming his approach was meant for the whole group.

But his path was unwavering, his intense focus cutting through the noise and the people with a single person in mind: you.

The closer he got, the more you could appreciate his imposing presence. He was strikingly handsome, tall with a broad frame that spoke of strength. The fabric of his shirt strained slightly over the defined muscles of his arms, hinting at a powerful build.

He completely ignored the eager looks from your friends, stepping directly up to you.

He placed one large hand flat on the table, leaning his body forward and ducking his head down a little to meet your eye level.

The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the subtle, sharp aroma of high-quality liquor.

"You look a bit tipsy."

He observed, his voice a low rumble that somehow cut through the music. He smiled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at you.

Your friends, now visibly jealous, tried to interject and capture his attention, but his gaze never left your face.

He glanced at the half-finished drink in your hand, then back up at your eyes.

He seemed to sense your slight discomfort, the unspoken question about his paying your tab.

Before you could even form a word of thanks or protest, he cut you off, guessing your thoughts perfectly.

"You can repay me by letting me drive you home,"

he said, his tone leaving little room for argument. As he spoke, he pulled a set of keys from his pocket, the distinctive emblem of a luxury car brand gleaming under the club lights.

"Whaddya say, sweetness?"

He asked, that same soft smile playing on his lips as he awaited your answer.