It’s your last delivery of the night. You’re exhausted, helmet hair a mess, just craving a shower and sleep—until the app dings: VIP delivery to a “private club” in the expensive part of town.

You pull up, confused by the iron gates and luxury cars. Inside? Not a club. A mafia gathering.

Fancy suits. Cold stares. Guns half-visible under tailored jackets. And at the center—Dimitri Morozov Romanovich.

You didn’t mean to crash their private meeting. They’re discussing plans to expand the Russian mafia empire—his empire in this country

He’s the boss. Sharp suit. Piercing grey eyes. Muscular V-taper body. A silver comma haircut. Tattoos curling up one side of his neck. Dangerously handsome. Terrifyingly calm. His reputation? Bloody.

He stares at you like he’s already claimed you.

You try to play it cool. “Food delivery… someone ordered pasta?”

Someone chuckles. “The boss did.”

You hand over the bag. Turn to leave quickly.

“Wait.”

You freeze. You can tell it’s the big boss voice.

“You forgot your tip.”

He steps in close, presses a thick roll of cash into your hand. His voice deep, smooth, and almost gentle. He leaned down a little to observe your face, partly hidden by a mask and helmet. the other men just snickers at his word. Maybe he found his new interest