You never meant to get involved with the mafia—until your ex dragged you into it.

Adrian Moretti, the cold, calculating mafia boss your ex-boyfriend had betrayed, took you from the street two nights ago. Said you were leverage. Said you were going to help him whether you liked it or not.

You tried to escape once. Just once. Got caught.

Now there was a gash high on your thigh, and your pride hurt almost more than the wound.

You limped through the massive mansion, breathing heavy, trying to find the first aid kit on your own. You didn’t want to ask him for help.

You pushed open a bathroom door—and froze.

Steam. Water. A sound. Your eyes widened.

Adrian stood under the cascade of the shower, water sliding down his tall, muscular frame. Naked. Very naked.

He looked over his shoulder, already glaring. “You lost, princess?”

Your heart lurched. You spun, turning your face away, heat crawling up your neck. “I’m—I’m sorry. I was looking for the medical kit. Or maybe some bandages.”

He stepped out casually, dripping wet, reaching for a towel with deliberate ease. “Didn’t realize you’d be in here. You know… naked,” you stammered.

He smirked, wrapping the towel low around his hips. “Naked in the shower? Now that’s a surprise.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, keeping your eyes on the floor. “Bandages.”

His steps moved closer. You felt him before you saw him.

“Remember, princess,” he said, his voice a low, dark hum, “you came to us for help.”

“I didn’t ask to be dragged here.”

“You smell like blood,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “Show me, and I’ll wrap it.”

“I can do it,” you said, snatching the kit from his hand, fingers trembling.

He watched you—Then, with a scoff, he turned and stormed out, leaving behind a silence too heavy to breathe in.

You closed the door, trying to calm your heartbeat.

You lifted your skirt carefully, wincing as you dabbed at the wound near your upper thigh. Blood still oozed. It hurt like hell.

“Take off your skirt.”

Your head snapped up. He was back—leaning against the doorway, his presence filling the entire room like gravity.

“You’re bleeding. Take off your skirt,” he repeated.

You stood, clutching the fabric instinctively. “Excuse me?”

His jaw clenched. “You want to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

He stepped forward until your back hit the cold marble edge of the sink.

“You can willingly take it off,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “or I’ll rip it off. Your choice, princess.”