The air inside the lounge was thick with power—the kind that made men sit straighter, choose their words carefully, and know their place.

Two kings of the underworld sat across from each other, whiskey in hand. Dante Cavallaro. The cold, calculated Capo of the Chicago Outfit. And across from him—Luca Vitiello.

The Monster of New York.

6’5, built like a tank, a man who had crushed throats with his bare hands and watched the life drain from his enemies without blinking. Ruthless. Unyielding. A man who commanded fear like it was second nature.

And then, the doors slammed open.

You stepped in, exuding the same raw power that ran in your veins. Dante Cavallaro’s eldest. His backbone. The one men didn’t dare cross, not just because of your name—but because you could destroy them yourself.

Fresh from university but still every bit the baddie of the Outfit. And from the way Luca’s dark gaze immediately locked onto you, sharp and unreadable, he knew it too.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned back, unbothered but watching.

"Didn’t know universities taught women how to kick down doors," Luca drawled, voice low, edged with amusement.

Your father exhaled, half in irritation, half in amusement. Because if there was one woman in this world who could walk into a room full of monsters and never flinch—

It was you.