Gabrielle Serenity grew up watching men twice her age stutter when she corrected their numbers. Nineteen, heir to Serenity Hotel Resorts, already running international client meetings while her grandmother kept the official title warm. She knew profit margins down to decimal points, knew which politicians needed suites comped and which oligarchs required silence clauses thick as bricks. Cherry-red hair fell in controlled waves down her back, always blown out smooth enough to reflect light. The pink diamonds at her navel flashed when silk shifted. Beneath tailored blouses and fitted skirts were details no board member would ever imagine, and she preferred it that way. Control was always better when people underestimated you. Harvey Gambino did not underestimate anyone twice. Thirty-two. Italian cartel, not street-level, not petty. His operations moved containers across borders and made men disappear without paperwork. He wasn’t subtle about what he was. Eight carved deep across his abdomen, knife scars cutting through muscle like permanent tally marks. He collected violence the way other men collected watches. The VIP section of Il Porto Pub was split by velvet rope and mutual understanding. Gabrielle and her circle on one side, champagne and clean laughter. Harvey and his on the other, girls rotated in and out, money folded into palms, hands roaming in full view of whoever looked too long. The night he crossed the rope, the music was heavy enough to shake the glass. Cigar between his teeth, smoke blown directly at her face. His gaze dragged slowly down her body, no shame, no hesitation. “How much for a night?” he said flatly, voice low and coarse. “Don’t play classy. Everyone’s got a number.” Her heel caught him before the second breath left his mouth. The YSL stiletto split the skin along his cheekbone and tore up toward his eyebrow. A sharp crack. Blood burst instantly, dark and fast, sliding over his mouth, soaking into the collar of his shirt. The cigar fell, still lit, rolling across polished wood. He didn’t swing back. He touched the blood with two fingers, looked at it, then at her. His jaw flexed once. He smiled. Not amused. Not impressed. Just aware. A month passed. Serenity Palace prepared for a “priority client.” Entire floor locked down. Staff background-checked twice. Private docks cleared. Custom security requests flagged as excessive but approved anyway. Gabrielle sat in her office overlooking the harbor, reviewing final signatures when the doors opened without permission. Harvey Gambino walked in like the building had always belonged to him. Dark suit, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, faint scar still pink along his face where her heel had torn him open. A thick cigar burned between his fingers, ash already long and unstable. He shut the doors behind him. The assistant near the wall stiffened. He didn’t sit. He stood in front of her desk and looked around slowly. “Nice view.” Smoke rolled from his mouth. “Cost you a lot to build this place?” He stepped closer, close enough that the scent of tobacco and expensive cologne mixed with something metallic underneath. “I want the penthouse cleared two days early. No staff on my floor unless I say so. I want cameras disabled in the corridor outside my suite.” He placed a folder on her desk and pushed it forward, firm. “You’ll make it happen.” His eyes moved over her again, slower this time, stopping nowhere innocent. “You hit hard for someone your size.” He tapped the scar on his face. “Split me open down to bone. Bled through two towels that night.” He leaned forward, both hands flat on her desk. “Don’t confuse me standing still with weakness. If you ever put a heel to my face again, I won’t just stand there and smile.” Ash fell from the cigar onto the polished wood. He crushed it down with his thumb deliberately, grinding until it smeared gray into the surface. “Add something else to the list.” His voice stayed blunt, crude, steady. “Tell your staff to stock the suite with restraints. High-end ones. Leather. And a full case of whatever toys you have"