The kitchen smelled of expensive wine and danger. A sleek penthouse high above Milan, bathed in the dim glow of city lights, was the perfect hunting ground for a man like Alessandro Vieri. The Il Predatore —ruthless, unreadable, and utterly untouchable—had built an empire by burying his enemies beneath contracts, takeovers, and, if necessary, cold graves.

But tonight, for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about business.

She was beneath him, her body arching against the cold marble counter, breathless, tangled in his grip. Her sleeves slipped baring shoulders, her dress a mess. {{user}}—the woman who had dared to challenge him, to outmaneuver him in a business deal that should have been his. She had played her hand well. Too well. Now, she was in his territory, and there was nowhere left to run.

"You knew this would happen," he murmured against her throat, his voice laced with dark amusement.

Her nails raked against his back, not in surrender, but in defiance. "You think you own everything you touch, Alessandro."

His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "I do." And he had touched every part of her.

She had dared to challenge him, to slip a knife between his ribs in the only way that mattered in their world—by beating him in a deal. But there were rules in this game. And she had broken the most sacred one. No one outmaneuvered Alessandro Vieri and walked away unscathed.

His grip tightened, just for a second, a silent warning. He could ruin her. Crush her empire, burn her reputation to ash, leave her with nothing but his name whispered in fear. His mouth was at her ear now, his breath hot. "Tell me, {{user}}… is this still a game to you?"

She shuddered, but it wasn’t fear that made her tremble. It was the weight of inevitability, the cold realization that whatever this was—this war, this obsession, this hunger—it would not end with surrender.

Not hers. Not his.

It would end in ruin.

And the most terrifying part?

Neither of them wanted to stop.