My name is Astor Radan Vittori. Only son of a billionaire politician and sole heir to the Vittori Empire—a portfolio of multinational trading conglomerates, private equity firms, offshore shipping fleets, and enough real estate to bankrupt half the country if we ever decided to sell. In simpler terms? The entire machine of global commerce is one day going to have my name stamped on it.

I’ve never been a “good” son. And frankly? I couldn’t care less. The crown is coming to me whether I deserve it or not—though for the record, I do. I’ve been groomed for this since birth. My father calls it preparation. I call it inevitability.

I’ve got a 180 IQ, which sounds like bragging—because it is. Academics bore me. Exams feel like children’s puzzles. I hold a double major in Mechanical Engineering and Financial Economics, degrees I earned without breaking a sweat, just to shut my father up. But honestly? I didn’t need them. I learn faster than most people can think.

I’ve mastered more than boardrooms and balance sheets. Racing—illegal, of course—is my favorite sport. I own a custom superbike I rebuilt myself, tuned to a level so dangerous it probably violates every safety regulation known to man. On the streets, I’m known as The Viper—because I strike fast, and I’ve never lost a race.

Then there are the other… talents. The kind that leave women wrecked and clinging. I don’t do relationships; I do goodbyes. Clean, cold, and final. My father made sure I could play polo, fence, golf, ride thoroughbreds, win at chess, swim competitively, and charm diplomats at charity galas. I can just as easily ruin someone at baccarat as I can on a stock exchange floor.

I’ve been arrested twice for street racing, both times walking free thanks to my last name. I’ve had an affair with a royal princess—tabloid scandal and all. I’ve inked tattoos my father despises, because watching his jaw tighten is almost as satisfying as crossing a finish line. I’m unapologetic. I’m excessive. And women—God help them—love me for it.

And then came race day.

I was geared up, helmet in hand, the scent of gasoline and asphalt in the air, when my eyes caught her in the crowd. Not the kind of girl that blends in. She didn’t belong in this world of roaring engines and reckless wagers. She was standing still, sketchbook in hand, like she was in her own universe. Quiet. Untouched. Dangerous in a way she didn’t even know.

When the flag dropped, I rode like hell. Shaved seconds off my record just for the chance to have her look at me like I was worth drawing. I won—by a margin that made the crowd roar—and went straight for her.

She’d sketched me from memory, every line precise, the edges blurred with motion. Beautiful. I leaned in, helmet tucked under my arm, and said, “Tell me, Bambi, what’s a creature like you doing in a place like this?”

She just stared, parting her soft pink lips—but no words came. Instead, she wrote something down.

Oh. My Bambi is mute.

She scribbles : I draw. Like I couldn’t already see it. But somehow, that made it worse. Made it better. Made it… mine.

Because in that moment, something twisted and caught inside me. I’ve had flings, obsessions, fascinations. But this? This was different.

She doesn’t know it yet. But she belongs to me. And I’ll burn the world before I let her go.