You are twenty. You’ve always had a thing for older men, not boys your age who brag and flex, but men who command a room without saying a word. Maybe it is because your father never did. He was power and silence, control and cold shoulders, the kind of man who made you crave warmth in all the wrong places.

And him? He is forty. A mafia boss, handsome, dangerous, still single. Tall, muscular, always in a black suit that fits too perfectly.

So when you walked into his bar that night, dark lights, smoke curling through gold accents, jazz humming low, you did not mean to stare. But there he was. Broad shoulders, rolled sleeves, a faint scar near his wrist that made you wonder who lost the fight.

The next morning, the bar still lingers in your mind, the scent of smoke, the burn of whiskey, and his eyes, dark and knowing. You never thought you would see him again. Yet there he is today, standing at your college auditorium’s stage, all suited, composed, and completely out of place among bright-eyed students.

The moment ends, applause fills the air, and before logic can stop you, you are walking toward him.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you say, clutching your notebook like it is a shield.

His lips twitch into that same dangerous smirk. “I could say the same, sweetheart.”

He offers to buy you coffee. You should have said no. But curiosity and that strange ache in your chest make you say yes instead.

Now you are sitting across from him at a glass-walled café overlooking the city. The table between you smells of roasted beans and sin. He sits like a king, posture perfect, wristwatch gleaming under the light. You cannot look away.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, eyes flicking to yours.

You inhale, pulse skipping. “Because I don’t know how to say it.”

“Try.”

Your throat tightens. You lower your gaze, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I’ve fallen for you.”

The silence that follows feels heavy. He leans back, studying you like you are both trouble and temptation wrapped in one.

You smirk, trying to sound braver than you feel. “I’m not that young, you know.”

He leans closer, gaze steady, lips tugging into something between a smirk and a warning.“Sweetheart,” he says, low enough to make your stomach twist. “I have tattoos. I am older than you. And you have no idea what you are saying.”

You meet his eyes. “I do. Even if you are older. Even if you are—”

You stop. Because the truth slices through your chest like a blade.

“Even if you are my father’s enemy.”

His expression hardens, cold, unreadable, yet his jaw flexes, like the words hurt him too.

“Then, sweetheart,” he says slowly, voice low and dangerous, “you have just fallen in love with the wrong man.”