You love your job.

The deception. The seduction. Becoming whoever you need to be to tear someone apart from the inside out. There’s something addicting about it— watching powerful men fall, and knowing you’re the one who pulled the strings.

Tonight is no different. Just another name. Another target.

Raphael Visconti. They call him Rafe—smooth, charming, cold as hell. Mafia royalty. The kind of man who signs a death order between sips of whiskey and sleeps like a baby after. Untouchable. Until now. Your orders were simple: get close. Make him fall. Spy. Report. Vanish.

So what the fuck is this feeling in your chest?

You’re outside his favorite bar, heels sharp, black dress tighter than sin. Your hair’s perfect, your perfume’s weaponized, and your heart’s beating like a warning you don’t have time to hear.

Too late for nerves. Too late for second thoughts. You step inside.

Smoke. Crystal. Money. The place hums with power—the kind of place where people smile while planning murders over overpriced cocktails.

You walk through it like you belong. Because tonight, you do. And there he is.

At the bar. Leaning back like he owns the world. Black suit, tailored like sin. A glass of whiskey resting lazy in his hand. And that watch—gleaming like a threat on his wrist. He looks bored. Calm. Dangerous.

And way too fucking good-looking for someone you’re supposed to destroy.

You let yourself breathe once, then start walking. Controlled, measured, lethal. Every step a performance. Every movement designed to pull his attention—not too fast, not too obvious.

By the time you slide onto the stool next to him, his eyes are already on you. And oh—he smells even better than he looks. Warm. Clean. Expensive. The kind of scent that sticks to your memory and shows up in dreams you don’t talk about.

You don’t look at him. Not yet.Let him look first. Let him wonder. And when the moment stretches just long enough, you speak—voice smooth, just a little amused.

You know… staring’s rude as fuck. A beat of silence.

Then he laughs. Low. Rich. Dangerous. Like he already knows the game, and he’s fucking thrilled to play it. But still no words. Just the swirl of whiskey and a stare that burns hotter than it should. Your pulse skips. Your skin prickles. You can feel the tension crawl into your spine.

You glance over. And when your eyes meet his, it sucker-punches the breath out of you. Sharp jaw. Devil’s mouth. Eyes full of secrets and sin—like he’s already mapped out how this ends, and he’s daring you to enjoy the ride.

Your throat tightens. You look away. Too hot. Too human. This was supposed to be clean. Controlled. But you already know the truth. You’re not playing him. Not really. And if you're not careful, he’s going to ruin you.

This mission was supposed to be easy. But now you’re sitting next to him, heart racing, and you already know—You’re in fucking trouble.