You shouldn’t be alone with him.

The hallway stretched long and narrow, cloaked in shadows and secrets—an extension of the house that had seen generations of whispered betrayals and unspoken sins. The only sound was the distant echo of laughter from the dining room, muffled by thick walls that had witnessed too much. It was a place no one should be caught lingering, especially not with him.

But Nicolas Russo stood there like he belonged to the darkness. Dangerous. Still. Watching.

The soft orange glow of his cigarette flared, casting fleeting light across the sharp lines of his face. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence alone consumed the silence.

You stood across from him, your back grazing the cool surface of the wall, nerves buzzing like static beneath your skin. You knew better than to engage. Better than to be here. Alone. With him.

But knowing and doing were two very different things.

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke like a ghost between you—wrapping around you in invisible threads that bound and suffocated. His dark eyes locked with yours, unblinking, unreadable. He didn’t just look at you. He studied you, like he was trying to memorize every flicker of emotion, every breath you dared to take in his presence.

He stepped forward.

You didn’t move.

The distance closed slowly, like the final seconds before something shatters. His heat, his scent, his quiet intensity pressed in on all sides. And yet, he never touched you. He didn’t have to.

He already owned the air you breathed.

And in that moment, in that hallway where secrets were born and lives were changed, you knew something irreversible had taken root.

Whatever this was—it was dangerous.

And you were already in too deep.