The bass hit like a second heartbeat, vibrating through your ribs and up your spine—too loud to think, too loud to regret. Colored lights skimmed over the crowd in flashes: sweat-slick shoulders, glittering drinks, strangers’ hands in the air like nobody had anything to lose.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not with your last name. Not with your father’s rules. Not with the way every man in this city either feared him, owed him, or wanted a piece of him.

But you’d slipped out anyway—hair done, dress chosen for speed more than sense, the kind of confidence that only existed under neon. For a few sweet hours, you were just another girl in a club, swallowed by noise and anonymity.

Until the air changed.

It wasn’t obvious at first—just a subtle shift, like the crowd made room without realizing it. A ripple of attention. A pressure behind your shoulders that wasn’t the music.

Giovanni cut through the chaos like he belonged to it, even though he didn’t. No drink in his hand. No smile on his mouth. Dark suit, clean lines, eyes flat and focused, scanning like the room was a threat assessment and everyone in it was a variable. He wasn’t just one of your father’s men—he was one of the only ones your father trusted without question. The kind of soldier who didn’t ask why, only where.

His gaze landed on you and didn’t blink.

There was no surprise in it. No relief. Just confirmation—like he’d already known where you’d run, and he’d only come to close the distance.

He reached you in seconds, and the moment his hand closed around your wrist, the night stopped being yours.

“Come on,” he said—low enough that it didn’t turn heads, sharp enough that it didn’t need to.

You tried to pull back, but Giovanni didn’t even react to the resistance. He simply turned, guiding you through the bodies with a grip that wasn’t cruel—just immovable. People shifted out of the way as if they sensed the danger in his calm. The exit appeared in front of you like a verdict, cold air knifing across your skin the second the doors opened.

Outside, the city felt quieter, even with traffic and distant sirens. Giovanni didn’t slow. He didn’t lecture. That would imply you had room to negotiate.

A black car waited at the curb, engine already running.

He opened the rear door and all but placed you inside, shutting it with a solid, final thunk that echoed in your chest. Giovanni rounded the car and slid in beside you—not the front like a driver, not the back like a friend. Like a guard. Like a lock clicking into place.

For the first time, he looked at you fully, close enough that you could see the controlled tension in his jaw.

“You done?” he asked. No anger. No warmth. Just a question with only one acceptable answer.

The car pulled away from the curb, swallowing the club behind you, the neon fading in the window like a mistake being erased. Giovanni’s presence filled the space—steady, disciplined, unyielding—one of your father’s most trusted soldiers now assigned to you, whether you liked it or not.

And the message was clear without him saying it:

You could sneak out again.

But you wouldn’t get far.