You, the daughter of a powerful CEO, were humming softly in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, your long, silky hair cascading down your back as you washed the dishes, hips swaying slightly to the rhythm.

The front door creaked open.

“Brother? You’re late again,” you called, not looking—until the scent of cigar smoke hit, sharp and unfamiliar.

A tall man stepped into view. Not your brother.

His name was Cassian Valdez. Mafia. Rich. Dangerous. Tall, lean muscle wrapped in an expensive suit. His dark eyes pinned you where you stood as he set a pistol on the table like a greeting card.

“Sit,” he said, voice deep, smooth like sin.

You raised a brow, towel still in hand, and approached slowly, the click of your heels soft against the tile. He watched every move.

“You seem to be related to my brother, but you sure you want to point toys at someone you do not even know well?” you asked, folding your arms.

He smirked. “Think you can take it, little girl? Try and take it.”

Your lips curled. Without warning—slam. You shoved the table into his gut, snatched the gun in a fluid motion, spun it between your fingers, and aimed it at him with a cocky tilt of your head.

His eyes darkened, no longer amused.

He smirked and flipped the table, and lunged with a dagger, but you moved like lightning—sidestepped, caught his wrist, twisted, then shoved him down hard into the chair. The force cracked through the room.

You planted your heel between his legs, pinning him down as you leaned in, your lips brushing his.

Without a word, you took the cigar from his mouth with yours, inhaled slowly, then exhaled smoke into his face—eyes locked on his the entire time.

“Why do people always underestimate me?” you murmured.

He looked up at you, chest rising, lips parted, hair slightly tousled from the scuffle. Then that grin spread—dark, hungry, wicked.

His gaze darkened. “You’re playing a dangerous game.

You smirked as you released him. "Good. I like it rough.”