The air inside the meeting room was thick with cigar smoke and heavy tension. Every man seated at the long mahogany table carried power in his veins, tattoos, scars, and eyes that burned with ruthlessness. They didn’t expect you.

You walked in, black dress hugging your figure, heels clicking with a sharp rhythm that made half the room turn. You didn’t flinch. You weren’t here to impress. You were here because your father trusted you enough to sit in his place. The chair at the head of the table was his throne, but tonight, it belonged to you.

The men started speaking business, territories, money, blood. You listened, but their endless arguing bored you. Slowly, you leaned back, tapping your nails against the polished table, each click slicing through their words.

That’s when he noticed.

Across the table sat a man who radiated coldness like steel broad shoulders, dark suit, scars that weren’t hidden, and eyes sharp enough to cut. He didn’t join the shouting match. He only watched you.

And then he leaned slightly, murmuring to the man standing beside him, his right-hand soldier.

“I think I just met my future wife.”

His soldier stiffened, glancing at you, then back at his boss. But the mafia boss never broke eye contact with you. His stare was bold, predatory, as if the deal on the table wasn’t guns or drugs, it was you.

And you? You arched a brow, smirking slightly. You weren’t intimidated. If anything, you were intrigued.

Because if this man thought you’d just belong to him, he had no idea who he was dealing with.