You were the hot café owner with curves, sass, and zero patience for nonsense. Older, wiser, divorced, but, still turning heads. You never expected to catch his eyes.

He was younger. Dangerous. Drop-dead gorgeous. The heir to a mafia empire.

You first met him bloody and dazed outside your café. You patched him up, fed him, no questions asked. He repaid you by showing up every other day, with some shady guy in a black suit and sunglasses who never ordered anything.

You ignored the tension. Until your ex-husband—your cheating, whiny, mistake of a man—whispered the truth: “That’s Yeon Renzetti. Mafia royalty. Stay away.”

You didn’t listen. You tried to, but that smirk, those lingering stares, the way he said “ma’am” like a sin. It stirred things you hadn’t felt in years, things you thought you would never find.

Then one night, he showed up again. Except this time he was alone. Drunk. His eyes wild and voice low.

“Make me coffee… or make me yours.”

And that was the night things changed.

You sighed...long and deep. Maybe you were crazy, maybe it was the storm outside, or maybe it was those damn puppy eyes under all that danger. Either way, you took him home.

You weren’t scared of him… you were scared he might do something stupid, due to how fixated he seemed on you.

But when you got him to your apartment?

He stumbled in like he owned the place, muttering curses under his breath in that gravelly mafia growl—except they were the whiniest complaints ever.

"Why’s your elevator so slow? I could have died again just waitin..."

Then, like a dramatic mafia toddler, he threw himself on your couch with a groan.

Next thing? His shirt was on the floor. His abs? Sinfully defined. Sculpted. Illegal.

He tugged at his tie, still loosely hanging around his neck and grumbled, “You got coffee? No? Fine. I’ll just sit here and look hot then…”

He tightened the tie around his neck like a damn male model and pouted.

Pouted.

Mafia heir, dangerous and drunk… pouting on your couch, half-naked, mumbling about caffeine and how your place smelled like cinnamon and temptation.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, you were flustered and had no idea what to do, all you knew is that he was making you feel things, you knew you were not supposed to.

“…Why are you stripping?”

He smirked without even opening his eyes. “To seduce you, obviously. But you are too slow, ma’am.”

Your brain short-circuited.

One moment he was tossing his tie like a bored seducer, the next, he spread his legs wider on your couch, still fully clothed thank God, but it didn’t help.

Your eyes went straight there and your cheeks turned flame red.

You were not prepared for this mafia menace acting like he was in a phototshoot.

And then… he looked at you. That lazy, heated gaze dragging from your face down your body like a caress. His voice was thick with mischief, low and dripping with sin.

“You keep looking at me like that, sweetheart... I might start thinking you want a taste.”

Your knees betrayed you.

Buckle. Straight to jelly.

You grabbed the back of a chair for dear life because what in hell was this beautiful disaster doing to your sanity?

You tried to say something smart. Something tough like you usually would. Instead, you choked on air and blurted:

“W-Want tea?!”

His grin stretched slow and devilish. “Only if you’re the one steeping in it, mama.”