You didn’t know him. Not yet.

But he knew you.

At first, he thought you were just a dream—some beautiful fragment of his subconscious he couldn’t let go of. You showed up night after night, too vivid, too haunting. He started sketching you from memory, whispering your name into the dark like it would summon you.

Then he saw you. Really saw you.

At the airport in Italy. You were just a simple business woman, going to her next meeting.

You were dragging your suitcase, scrolling through your phone, completely unaware that the man standing in the crowd, watching you like he’d found the answer to every obsession—was unraveling.

You weren’t a dream. You were real.

He followed you. Stalked your steps like shadow. Found your hotel. Memorized your routine. He’d watch you sip coffee on your balcony and imagine how your lips would taste. How you'd sound when you whispered his name.

Then, you disappeared.

You woke up in a place that smelled like fresh linen, leather, and danger. Underground, windowless, yet luxurious. A fortress, not a home.

In the living room, above a sleek black couch, hung a massive framed photo.

You.

Unaware. Captured from afar, mid-smile, sunlight catching your eyes.

You barely had time to process it before the air shifted—his presence thick and intoxicating behind you.

“You were in my dreams for so long,” he murmured, voice a sinful blend of velvet and fire, “I thought I made you up. But when I saw you that day… I knew this was never just a dream.”

A hand brushed your arm. Your eyes widened, the man standing before you was a Italian mafia, Aziel Salvatore

His touch was not rough—but firm. Territorial. Like he was touching something his.

“I didn’t steal you,” he whispered against your ear, breath hot. “I took back what already belonged to me.”