Trigger Warning
This is a dark mafia romance containing graphic content, including violence, guns, blood, suicide ideation, drugs, alcohol, and explicit romance scenes that may not be suitable for some readers.
BLURB
Never tip your hand. Never show fear.
Raised the dutiful mafia princess, I played the game well. But I was willing to spill my own blood to escape an arranged marriage. When that failed, I finally fled.
Never in my darkest, deadliest dreams did I think my path to freedom would thrust me right into bloodthirsty enemy arms.
Arms and eyes made of steel. A man like no other man I’d ever known. He’d be the death of me.
If only the death of me didn’t feel so excruciatingly good...
OLIVIA
My mother insists on holding my hand as we walk past rows of unfamiliar faces—people I don’t recall meeting, though their names ring with vague familiarity. Business associates of my father, most likely. Men and women who have always hovered at the edges of his empire, now showing up in tailored suits to mourn a man they probably hate as much as we do.
With every step, my eyes search the crowd, desperate for one familiar face that might offer the slightest shred of comfort. But I find none.
We move with measured, deliberate strides through the chapel. I’ve long since mastered the proper pace—the perfect rhythm for my feet and the curling of my heels against the soft fabrics of the black carpet.
Walk too slowly, and they’ll see weakness, a sign of hesitation that could be fatal in our world.
Walk too quickly, and they’ll see eagerness, a hunger they’ll be ready to exploit.
But walk with the perfect pace, and you assert your dominance, your control, signaling their demise before they even know it.
In the front row, my brother sits flanked by our two cousins, our nephew, and my sister-in-law. I slip silently into the seat between him and our mother. My legs cross neatly at the ankle, hands fold in my lap, back straight, chin lifted. Eyes forward. Expression unreadable.
It’s the only posture I know—the only posture I’ve ever been allowed to maintain in public.
Don’t show emotion, don’t show weakness, don’t show mercy, don’t show anything at all.
That’s the first lesson my father taught me.
The second: kill or be killed.
Third, the rule that he himself dared to defy: never leave the house without guards.
It was the discarding of that one lesson that got him killed. I haven’t asked my brother who did it. He wouldn’t have told me anyway. He never involves me in anything beyond the image we’re meant to project. But I can guess. And I’m fairly certain I already know.
The ceremony is short and appropriate. The funeral director shares stories about my father with us. He speaks of the man with reverence, with love for our company, his children, and his wife. He was a great man; he led our family to great prosperity. He was a kind and patient figure, and he will live further in our hearts—
It’s the biggest pile of crap I’ve heard in a long time.
My father was no saint. He was a tyrant—unyielding, cruel, violent. He despised the life he built and loathed the family he shared it with. He hated the company. Hated us. Hated her.
My father wielded his power like a blunt instrument. He punished us when we dared to step out of line, and he whipped my brother for asking the simplest questions.
My father used my mother for her father’s wealth, which he used to expand his own empire. To him, she was nothing less than a childbearing device. He crushed her spirit beneath the weight of his indifference. He broke her into the pile of nothing that she resembles now.
My father was a boss, a father, a husband, a mystery.
My father is dead now.
His decision to leave the house unguarded was nothing short of suicide. He knew the risks, understood the consequences. But still, he went outside on his own, to that goddamn parley.
He was a coward.
People rise to their feet and head for the entrance, low murmurs rising with them. No one approaches the front—not when the coffin remains sealed. It’s intentional. There isn’t much left of him anyway. A few organs. A hand. Enough to confirm the body.
We remain seated until the last stranger leaves. Only then does my brother rise, prompting the rest of us to follow. Four men in black suits approach and lift what is left of our father. They carry him out, stiff and silent.
We don’t hold hands this time, we just walk. We walk until our minds grow numb and our hearts cease their relentless pounding for a man who is no longer with us.
The cemetery has never been just a burial ground. Our history is buried here—every mistake, every triumph.
I pass my grandfather’s stone and brush my wrist where his watch now sits.
Alexander Thompson III, dead at 50.
Beside him lies my grandmother, Maria Thompson, dead at 45.
Further down the row, the names begin to blur together; Alexander Thompson IV, my uncle, perished at age 48. Samantha Thompson, my cousin, met her end at just 16. Xavier Rousseau, my mother’s father, died at age 51.
The row of names stretches on for too long.
None of us lives long. We burn bright, die young. That’s the curse. The legacy. It’s the cruel fate that binds us together.
We reach the grave. A few people have stayed behind. The headstone is already in place.
Marcus Thompson, 1972-2024.
He holds the family record: 52. People call it an achievement.
I call it pathetic.
As the coffin lowers, my mother steps forward and places a single white peony on top, her movements mechanical. A small sparrow lands on the grey stone, fluttering its wings in the sun, singing its little song before vanishing into the sky.
Lucky bastard.
My shoulders begin to ache, but even the slightest slouch catches my mother’s attention. Her fingers close around my wrist, sharp and deliberate. I straighten, staring at the empty blue above us.
Beside me, my brother holds his son’s hand. Martin, my nephew, is only 3 years old, almost 4, but still too young to understand the darkness that surrounds us. He’ll learn, though, just as we all have learned.
Just as we turn to leave, Marcus speaks.
“Olivia, a word, please?”
My jaw clenches. Familiar figures pass by—quiet footsteps, fading. I keep my eyes closed, but I hear every step until they vanish.
I turn back to him at the foot of our father’s grave. He stands like a statue in his tailored black suit, gaze locked ahead. His dark hair has recently changed, cropped too close, too neat. His eyes are dull. Hollow.
My brother has always known that the mantle of leadership would one day fall upon his shoulders. It’s the inevitable burden of our lineage. Now, at the age of 27, he is the master of our family legacy.
“Are you okay?” I ask, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Hands clasped behind him, thinking, calculating. I’m not even sure he’s heard me until he gives a slight nod.
“We need to expand our family, Olivia,” he says with a tone that means business. “You need to marry, to start a new line. We need new members, and we need them fast.”
I stare at the ground. “I understand.”
“I know I promised you freedom until twenty-five,” he goes on, “but we don’t have that kind of time. I need to secure you. In case I’m gone before then.”
“I understand,” I repeat.
“I’ll find you a husband, someone who is capable of taking care of you, who is willing to help us. I’ll arrange a meeting in the upcoming week. You need to prepare yourself.”
Hell no.
“I understand,” I lie. I’m a malfunctioning robot now, apparently.
“I’m sorry.” His gaze meets mine for just a moment, his soft green eyes inspecting my face. He reaches out and squeezes my hand before he turns and walks away.
“I understand, Marcus,” I whisper to the empty air.
Alone now, in the quiet graveyard behind our home, I let myself breathe.
The Thompsons have always been a tight-knit community, bound by blood and tradition, united in our shared history. But my brother is right, our numbers are limited.
I feel it then—a chill creeping down my spine.
Like I’m being watched.
I’m not stupid—I know guards are stationed nearby, always. But this time feels different. They aren’t close. Not close enough.
I look around, see nothing out of the ordinary, then stare straight ahead at my father’s name engraved in stone.
I light a cigarette with shaking fingers, and I inhale deeply. Next is a big gulp of the flask I carry with me at all times.
One single tear slides down my cheek. Only one; that’s the rule. One at a time, or I won’t be able to stop. I know that once I let my body do as it pleases, the tears would never, ever stop. My body would crumble to the ground until there’s nothing left but a pulverized pile of dust and tears.
We can’t have that right now, or ever.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
ENZO
Just observe, they said. Track her movements. Make a report if you notice anything useful.
Right. Like I’m some errand boy with a camera phone and nothing better to do.
I lean against the weathered brick of the old gardener’s shed, hoodie up, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a uniform that doesn’t belong to me. The patch sewn on my chest says “Lawn & Garden Services.” It’s fake like everything else about this assignment.
But it works. Her guards haven’t looked at me twice. They’ve got their eyes on the fences and the tree lines, not the help with mud on his boots. They see what they expect to see.
Idiots.
She’s about a hundred feet away, standing between headstones, a cigarette burning slowly between her fingers. Black dress. Bare legs. Heels sinking slightly into the damp grass.
Her family finally fucked off ten minutes ago. Left her alone with the marble slabs and the ghosts. And all that’s left are those stupid men in black suits scattered around her like annoying bugs.
She’s grieving. I know that. Buried her father today. I don’t know what I expected from her today. I figured she’d cry, scream, become a liability.
But she hasn’t moved in for five minutes. Just stares at the dirt.
And something about that stillness—it gets to me, more than it should.
I shift slightly, exhaling through my nose. The trees are blooming—delicate petals dusting the wind—but all I can think about is how fucking pointless this is.
Surveillance. Babysitting. They can call it whatever they want.
I call it beneath me.
I was trained for extraction. Combat. Cleanup. Things that require actual skill. This? This is a waste of time.
But at least she’s smoking hot to look at.
I catch myself thinking it and clench my jaw. Pathetic. But true.
She’s striking. The kind of pretty that doesn’t ask for attention, just assumes it. She’s wearing heels too impractical for the grass beneath her. A black dress that’s too polite for her figure. And her hair is pulled into a tight bun.
And the way she moves… there’s something off. Controlled. Calculated. Almost like she knows she’s being watched.
I narrow my eyes. No. She can’t know. She’s not trained, not like that. She walks like someone who grew up having people stare.
Rich girl. Pretty girl. Untouchable girl.
And now, my responsibility.
Lucky me.
She takes one final drag on her cigarette, then flicks it into a nearby trash bin without looking. She stops at the root of a nearby tree, stretches up on tiptoes to reach for a branch. A small leaf breaks and falls into her hair.
She doesn’t notice. But I do.
It’s fucking ridiculous. The whole scene looks like a damn painting. And I hate paintings.
I remind myself: I’m not supposed to touch her. Not supposed to get involved. Just track her routine. Study her behavior. Watch who she speaks to, how often she comes out here, and when she’s alone. No involvement. No contact.
But the truth is: she doesn’t look like an assignment. She looks like temptation with a pulse.
She glances around, her eyes flicking across the orchard. Something shifts in her. Suspicion, maybe. Or habit. But she doesn’t see me.
Of course, she doesn’t. She doesn’t even know who I am.
We’ve never met. Never spoken. She’s seen my file, maybe. But she’s never seen me. I made sure of that.
My hair’s longer, I’ve added more bulk to my frame, and even changed the way I move. If she ever had a photo of me—unlikely—it wouldn’t match. If her security had a list of known enemies, my face wouldn’t trigger a damn thing.
She turns again suddenly—fast enough to make my pulse jump—and I press myself lower behind the wall.
The leaf she hadn’t noticed flutters to the ground, forgotten, and then she starts walking back toward the house.
God. What a waste of time.
Except… she isn’t. Not really. She’s interesting, unfamiliar, different than anyone I’ve ever approached. She’s like something ethereal, an entity that I can’t stop watching.
Like an angel.
I wait until the last edge of her dress disappears through the back door before I move, stepping into the space she just left. It’s not smart. I know that. But I do it anyway.
I walk to the tree. Stand where she stood. I tilt my head up and look at the branch she reached for. Then I pick up the fallen leaf that she never knew landed in her hair. I roll it between my thumb and index finger.
Stupid. Sentimental. I should throw it away.
Instead, I slip it into my coat pocket.
Tomorrow I’ll come earlier.
Watch longer.
Get closer.
Because something about her doesn’t sit right.
And I need to know what it is.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
OLIVIA
“So, how’s life in the mansion?”
Nathalie is sipping her margarita, her dozens of bracelets and rings clinking against each other.
“Boring as ever,” I mutter, glancing at my martini.
“Ah, the exciting life of the rich and infamous,” she says, rolling her eyes.
We’re seated in a dimly lit corner of The Royal Swan, one of the few places not under the oppressive thumb of my family, or any other family for that matter. It’s exactly the reason Nathalie and I have made this our usual hanging spot.
“I should’ve been there,” she says. “For the funeral, I mean. I wanted to be there, I swear, but you know how it is. My family… they wouldn’t let me leave. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, Nat,” I murmur. Of course, she couldn’t come. Our lives are mirrors of each other, both of us forced into obedience and silence.
“It’s not fine,” she insists. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.”
“Let’s not talk about it, okay?” I finally say. “It’s done. Over with.”
“Alright.” Nathalie tilts her head, a crease of concern on her forehead. “What about the wedding? Wasn’t your marriage deadline supposed to be twenty-five? Your dictator of a brother allowed you to wait, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, he did, but I guess being the big boss and all made him change his mind. Maybe he’s worried I’ll hit early menopause.”
Nathalie snorts, almost spilling her drink. “I’m sorry, sweetie.” She reaches for my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sure he has your best interests at heart, even if he’s being a total arsehole about it.”
I look up to meet her gaze, finding her dark eyes filled with worry. Nathalie Burke has been my best friend since we were 15, when we snuck out during a boring family gathering and got wasted in the orchard on expensive champagne. That night ended in puking behind the orchard and pinkie swears never to tell on each other. We’ve been inseparably bonded ever since.
Her family got transferred to London from Manchester, and her parents soon gained entry into the inner circle of my family. Now, she’s practically a sister to me, and the best part is, she’s the only person I know who isn’t intimidated by the flock of gorillas that constantly surrounds me.
Hell, now that her parents are about as important as my brother, she has her own shadows clinging to her. Our respective bodyguards get along just fine, on the surface. But underneath the polite nods and forced smiles, they don’t trust each other one bit, and frankly, I don’t blame them.
As a result, both of our men keep a discreet watch over us. They are circling our table, some pretending to be out with friends, some pretending to take a smoke outside. Some men aren’t pretending anything at all, and they’re standing at the doors, behind the bar, guarding the walls, dressed in all-black suits.
“It’s not just the marriage thing,” I tell her, swirling my martini. “Marcus has changed. It’s like every time I see him, he’s a little colder, a little less... human.”
Ever since our father died, he’s barely spoken to me, always out on trips and excursions. I saw him come home once, drenched in sweat and what I hope was someone else’s blood.
I take a sip, letting the alcohol linger on my tongue, hoping it will wash away the image. “I know we never really had much of a sibling bond, but I never thought it could get this bad.”
“Have you tried talking to him?”
I shake my head. “He doesn’t allow me near him these days. Getting anything out of him is impossible. It’s like trying to have a heart-to-heart with a brick wall.”
She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Have you tried your ‘death gaze’ on him? I’m sure that’ll work. You’ve got a talent for making grown men cry with that look.”
“I’m sure he’d either laugh in my face or have me locked in my room for ‘insubordination.’”
Nathalie chuckles softly but doesn’t press. She knows better than anyone that Marcus and I have always had a relationship best described as ‘cordially distant.’
“Anyway,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t even hear from Marcus directly anymore. If he wants something, Matteo’s the messenger boy.”
Her eyes widen at the mention of my cousin’s name. She’s had a crush on Matteo from the moment they met. Alas, her fate has been sealed for a long time.
Her parents arranged her marriage the second they found out they were expecting a girl. Fortunately, she’s managed to turn her situation into something bearable. Robert, her husband of two years, is more a friend than a lover, but they’ve found a way to make it work. Plus, Robert is amazingly sweet and kind, and he has a massive cock —a detail she has described in mortifying detail more times than I care to recall.
Nathalie downs her drink in one go. “Anyway, Robert’s been talking nonstop about having children. Could you imagine me soberfor nine months? Like, hello, I have a life of my own, thank you very much.”
I let out a soft chuckle, immediately masking it from the guards around us. “At least your man is aesthetically tolerable. Mine will probably look like a polished goblin.”
She laughs so loudly it causes her bodyguards to stiffen, their heads swivelling in our direction.
“He can’t be that bad.” She steals my glass and takes a sip. “You know what you really need? To get laid. You’re far too tense to be walking down the aisle.”
I smile faintly, the kind that doesn’t quite touch my eyes. The alcohol is beginning to soften the jagged edges of my anxiety, muting the world into something distant and almost bearable. “What I really need,” I say, draining the glass before she can snatch it away again, “is another martini. Or five.”
“Or... we could just run away. Pack our bags, fake our deaths, and disappear to some tropical island where no one knows us. No more mob families, no more arranged marriages. Just you, me, and a never-ending supply of cocktails served by hot island guys.”
I stifle back my laughter, the idea both absurd and tantalizing. “If only. Marcus would have a bloody army combing every inch of the planet to drag us back.”
Nathalie shrugs, undeterred. “We’d just have to disguise ourselves. Maybe go brunette? I bet you’d look stunning with dark hair. Although... maybe you’re already unrecognizable once you let your hair down. Maybe get a trim or something.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’d look horrendous. Besides, I’m already stuck. This marriage is as inevitable as death.”
Nathalie laughs again, the sound sweet as honey, this time drawing attention from a group of unfamiliar men nearby. She’s always had that effect on people. Nathalie—with her ash blonde hair cascading in perfect waves, her mysterious dark eyes that seem to hold endless secrets, and a body sculpted by the gods— is a magnet for attention.
And tonight is no different. She’s clad in a beautiful black dress suit with a low neckline, leaving not much for the imagination.
She’s the kind of woman who could walk into a room and instantly command everyone’s attention. And she enjoys it. Married or not, she never shies away from a good fuck. She and Robert have an understanding I can only be envious of; what happens at night, stays at night.
“Nonsense,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re a beautiful woman. Someone who seriously needs to get her pussy eaten tonight.”
“Shut it,” I hiss. “Last thing I need is for Marcus to get a report about how his little sister ‘misbehaved’ tonight.”
“Oh, come on, you’re my best wing-woman,” she whines, giving me her best puppy-dog eyes. “Last time, you got that handsome sex god begging on his knees by simply using your eyes. You gave me the perfect position to shove my vag—”
“Bloody hell, spare me the details, Nat,” I mutter, pressing my hands against my ears. “I can’t handle the images popping up in my head right now.”
Nathalie laughs, utterly undeterred. “You’re such a prude. You know, it was the best orgasm I’ve had in weeks. And I owe it all to you.”
A movement in my periphery catches my attention, and I look up to see a figure approaching our table. He’s a young man, probably around my brother’s age, moving with the grace and confidence of a predator.
His thick, chestnut brown hair is neatly combed, with a few rebellious strands falling over his forehead. Some locks look darker in color, almost black, framing his face in a way that feels effortlessly sexy. His jawline is sharp and defined, his frame sculpted as if by years of dedicated physical training. And his biceps—Jesus Christ, his biceps—strain against the fabric of his black button-down in a way that’s almost indecent.
His right hand is covered in sleek black silk, a detail that feels oddly out of place but intriguing. A mystery I have no business wanting to solve. But it’s his eyes that steal the breath from my lungs. Surrounded by dark lashes, they’re this deep, dark shade of blue, like the darkest part of the ocean, like navy sapphires, like... I don’t know, they’re just beautiful.
And yet, they’re completely expressionless. His face looks almost… void. Like there’s no emotion in him, no real person behind those eyes.
Next to me, Nathalie catches my frozen stare and delivers a sharp kick to my shin under the table. I yelp, glaring at her, but she only smirks wickedly.
“What can I do for you ladies?” His voice is rich and velvety, with the faintest accent threading through it—Spanish, maybe? Italian? It’s subtle, just enough to make him even more enigmatic.
“We’d love a refill,” Nathalie responds with a playful smile. “And maybe your number for my shy friend over here?”
I nearly choke on my tongue.
“She could use a bit of excitement—after all, she’s getting married next week.”
Heat surges up my neck, and before I can stop myself, I kick her under the table. She flinches slightly but keeps her expression infuriatingly composed. Her doe-eyed façade is so convincing, I could throttle her.
The Bartender responds with this barely noticeable smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your shy friend, huh?”
I drop my gaze, focusing intently on the scratched surface of the table.
“She’s really into you,” Nathalie continues, relentless. “Maybe you could show her a good time.”
His gaze shifts back to me, and I blurt out, “Ignore her. She’s being ridiculous.”
“Is that so?” he asks. “So, you don’t want me to show you a good time?”
I say nothing, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, and focus harder on the table.
“She does,” Nathalie answers for me. “She’s just... shy.”
The Bartender studies me for another moment, then sniffs. “Be right back,” he says as he walks over to the bar. His back muscles ripple through his shirt, making it even harder to tear my eyes away.
“What is wrong with you?” I hiss at Nathalie once he’s out of earshot. “Why would you tell him I was into him?”
She shrugs nonchalantly. “I saw the way you were ogling that guy. You were practically drooling all over his cheap shoes.”
“They’re not cheap,” I murmur, and I catch myself staring at his feet. He’s wearing weathered boots, but from here I can’t make out the brand.
Nathalie chuckles. “Whatever. Just go have sex with him already. He looks like he’s into you.”
“I’m engaged, remember? Getting married in a week?”
“So? I’m married, and I’m totally getting some dick later tonight.” She gapes around, finding the table of men that were previously eyeing us. “One of those will do.”
I sigh, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my temples. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Impossible, but right,” she replies, her tone unapologetically smug. “You need to loosen up. Tonight’s supposed to be about having fun, not worrying about your wedding. And, I mean, look at that guy.” She points at The Bartender, now occupied behind the counter. “Your tiny arse could climb that body like a tree. Maybe even set up camp while you’re up there.”
“If you keep this up, I swear I’ll—”
She laughs again before drawing it back to a quiet giggle. “I’d love to see you try, sugarplum.”
I sigh heavily, reaching for my purse and pulling out a cigarette package. “I need a smoke. You stay here and make sure that bartender hands us our drinks before I get back.”
She waves a dismissive hand at me, her eyes already wandering back to the table of men. “You’re such a bore,” she mutters, though there’s no malice in her words. It’s just Nathalie being… Nathalie. Always pushing the boundaries, always seeking the next thrill.
I stalk over to the entrance, my heels clicking against the polished floor, and I step into the warm, summer night. I light the cigarette and inhale deeply. The familiar burn of nicotine fills my lungs, bringing a momentary sense of calm.
Across the street, the black shadows of my security detail linger just out of reach—visible enough to be a warning, discreet enough to pretend they’re not. But I know they’re watching. Always watching.
Like a noose around my neck.
I glance across the street and catch one of them pretending not to look. A bitter smile curls on my lips. What would it feel like to breathe without surveillance? To exist for just one night as someone no one gives a damn about? A regular 23-year-old girl, hanging out in a bar with her best friend.
But no, I’m Olivia Thompson, daughter of one of the most—if not the most—powerful families in London. Not a girl. Not a person. A piece of currency. A pawn forced into a suffocating designer dress, balancing on stilettos that could snap my neck if I misstep.
What I would do for just one normal night.
Perhaps in that alternate reality, I could let loose. I’d find myself completely, shamelessly hammered, dancing to the music till dawn. I’d flirt outrageously with that stupidly attractive bartender. Hell, I’d let him fuck me in the alley behind the bar and make me forget about all this bullshit for just one night.
The thought of him brings a bitter smile to my lips. I don’t know why I was so drawn to him. I never lose my cool like that, not with some random guy I don’t even know.
Still, my mind keeps circling back to him. Those arms, that chest, those lips—God, those lips—
That feeling again.
It’s been stalking me for weeks. This crawling, skin-prickling dread. Like eyes are on me that I can’t place. Not just the guards. Not the passersby. Something else.
I scan the pavement, the doorways, the windows. Nothing. Just the usual fog-drenched city night. And yet the pressure remains. Tight. Heavy.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and with a sigh, I retrieve it to open the screen.
Nathalie: Come back, I’m bored.
Olivia: What do you want me to do about it?
Nathalie: Entertain me.
Olivia: Did we receive our drinks yet?
I glance up again. One of my guards is watching. Not subtly, either. His raised brow silently asks: “What the hell are you doing?”
I shrug, sliding my phone back into my purse. He doesn’t approve of my smoking, not that it matters. None of them report back to my brother anymore, not since I started slipping a few extra notes into their weekly pay. Money talks, and it says “Shut the fuck up” quite effectively.
I take another drag, feeling the smoke curl around my lungs, hoping it will suffocate the anxiety gnawing at my insides. But the feeling won’t leave me. The watching. The waiting. The chill creeping up my spine.
I throw my bud in the ashtray and step back inside. The warmth of the bar hits me, along with the noise, the chatter, the music—it’s all too much. As I approach our table, a wave of irritation rises up in me when I notice there are still no drinks. I slide back into my chair, glaring at Nathalie like it’s her fault.
She’s scrolling through her socials, something I’m hyper jealous of. I’m not allowed to have socials—Marcus says they’re overrated, a distraction, and will only cause trouble. But trouble’s the family business, isn’t it?
“What?” she asks me, irritated as she meets my glare.
“Our drinks?”
“Haven’t been delivered yet.”
I sigh dramatically, contemplating whether I have enough time to dash to the toilet before The Bartender reappears. I could avoid another mortifying encounter. Perhaps I can just hide in a stall and rethink my life choices—
Perhaps not.
Right on cue, The Bartender reappears, tray in hand, those glassy eyes glancing my way for a fraction of a second before darting away again.
“One martini, one margarita. Enjoy, ladies.”
“Cheers,” Nathalie says, raising her glass.
As soon as he vanishes, I finally dare to look up, but he’s nowhere to be seen. “Well, thanks for this. Now I can never come back to our favorite bar without wanting to crawl under a table.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Nathalie retorts, sipping her drink. “You’re the one acting all awkward and tense for no reason. You’re usually all cold and bold confidence around men.”
“Yeah, well… this one is different.”
Her eyes widen, and with sudden urgency, she grabs my elbow, her grip firm.
“What are you doing?”
“Look!” She practically shoves my arm aside to point at a small piece of paper on the table, right under my arm.
How did that get there? Why didn’t I notice?
I stare at the paper for a second, my heart thumping uncomfortably. I don’t like surprises—they’re rarely good in my world. I unfold the note with care, reading the scrawled words:
“Employees restroom. 5 mins.”
Nathalie plucks it from my hands and stifles back a happy gasp when she reads it. “You have to go, now!”
“I can’t.” I sip from my drink, biting into the olive that floats on the alcohol. “We’re surrounded by men in black, remember?”
“So? Pay them to look the other way.”
“I’m already bleeding cash keeping them quiet. I can’t afford another bribe tonight, Nat.”
She scoffs, swinging her purse into view. “Lucky for you, Daddy dearest doubled my allowance. I’ll cover it.”
I lean back, torn between curiosity and common sense. My gaze flits around the room, searching for The Bartender, but he’s nowhere to be found. Is he already waiting for me? What does he want?
“Just go, okay? What could happen?” Nathalie urges me.
I scoff at her naivety. “I could get murdered. Then you'd have my blood on your hands.”
“You’re ruining all the fun.” She basically forces my chair back with her foot, glaring at me until I reluctantly rise to my feet. “You have your pager, right? And your gun?”
I nod, draining the rest of my drink in one go. Then, with a resigned sigh, I start navigating my way toward the restrooms, casting a reassuring glance at my brother’s men to let them know I’m not doing anything too scandalous. Just, you know, meeting a hot bartender in a secluded area.
Totally normal.
Marcus finally caved to my endless pleas for privacy, instituting a hard-and-fast rule: I get ten uninterrupted minutes anytime I need the bathroom. No exceptions. If I’m not back within that window, they’ll storm in like a bloody SWAT team. I’ve also got my pager—a single button summons them instantly.
And, just for extra fun, I carry a small handgun in my bra. Because, why the hell not?
Before slipping down the hallway, I glance back at Nathalie. She’s already deep in conversation with some blonde guy sliding into my empty chair. At least she won’t be alone while I make this questionable decision.
The restrooms are tucked away at the end of a dim corridor. A worn sign reading “Employees Only” hangs crookedly on the door. Not exactly welcoming, but I suppose I’m already committed.
I hesitate in front of the door, staring at the handle as if it would magically open itself. Time ticks away, each second feeling heavier than the last. My watch says ninety seconds have passed since I left the table.
I’m wasting valuable time.
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all. Seriously, what the hell was I thinking? My life is complicated enough without throwing a sneaky rendezvous with the hot bartender into the mix.
Just as I decide to turn back, I collide with something solid. For a fleeting second, I think I’ve walked straight up into a bloody wall. Then the smell hits me—expensive cologne with a hint of sweetness.
Startled, I look up to find myself staring into a pair of dark blue eyes, intense and probing. Two strong arms wrap around my shoulders, pinning me against the rough surface of the wooden door, and I let out a panicked shriek as the breath is knocked from my lungs.
Fuck.
“So,” The Bartender starts, “you’re into me, huh?”
He towers over me by nearly a foot, and I have to crane my damn neck to look at his face. It’s clear now that this was probably a terrible idea, but by the way he’s holding me—intimate and almost possessive— I feel my body fill with a strange excitement.
Damn it. I’m too turned on to back out now.
“What’s your name?” I ask him.
His lips curl up into a smirk that refuses to reach his eyes. “You’re really going to waste time with questions?”
Annoying. But also, strangely compelling. There’s something about the way he carries himself—confident, magnetic, a touch dangerous—that makes my pulse race against my better judgment.
“Alright then.” I place my hands on his shoulders.
“Aren’t you supposed to get married?” He tilts his head, his arms curling further around my body, pulling me against his hard, muscular chest.
“I’m not married yet,” I say as I glance at my watch. “You’ve got exactly seven and a half minutes. You better make them count.”
“Challenge accepted.” He reaches for the doorknob and pushes me inside the restroom, locking the door behind us. My stomach knots with anticipation, though there’s a flicker of doubt. What if this is a mistake? What if I’ve just trapped myself with someone I can’t control?
When I glance at him, standing there with an unshakable presence, it’s hard to imagine that he’s just a bartender. He has an air of authority about him. He dims the bathroom light to a low hue of orange, and I know there’s no turning back now.
Besides, I want this. I need this.
The Bartender stalks over to me, undoing his belt and unbuttoning his pants. There’s nothing soft in the way his hands grip my waist. It’s possessive. Rough. Like he’s staking a claim.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he murmurs.
It’s not flirtation. It’s not a compliment. It’s a threat wrapped in heat—and somehow, that makes it perfect.
I’m lifted onto the marble counter without warning, positioned between the sinks. “I’d like to fill you up with my cock.”
My laugh is bitter. “Not exactly a charmer, are you?”
His eyes flicker—something sharp behind the blue. A flicker of rage, gone in an instant. But it was there.
He doesn’t answer. Just pulls my thong down like it’s nothing, all the way to my ankles, and I kick it to the ground. My dress has climbed up over my thighs, my bare arse against the marble, inevitably exposing my scars. He doesn’t seem to care.
“What are you waiting for?” I demand.
“You always this bossy?” he murmurs.
“Shut up and fuck me already.”
The fabrics of his pants and boxers fall down, and for a split second, I’m almost overwhelmed by the sheer, unapologetic hardness of his cock sticking out between my thighs.
Then, with maddening control, he slides two fingers inside me. Deep. Slow. Precise. I throw my head back, gasping. My legs hook around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer. He smells so good, it’s overwhelming. His scent—mint and coffee—is masculine, strong, and vaguely… familiar somehow.
His fingers move like he’s memorizing my anatomy. Too expert. Too measured. And too silent.
My hands wander with a mind of their own, drawn irresistibly to his chest, and I press my palms against the dense muscles underneath the fabric. He tenses slightly, his grip tightening, but he keeps his pace, rubbing me, pushing me over the edge. And yet, it feels like he’s restraining himself.
“Why are you holding back?” I hiss. “You scared you’ll break me?”
There’s that flicker again. Rage, not lust. It flashes in his eyes. His fingers stop.
And then—he’s inside me.
No warning. No transition. Just cock—thick, brutal, unrelenting. My breath is punched from my lungs in a shocked, half-pleasured cry.
I’ve come across a fair share of dicks in my life, but his is something else. Definitely the biggest.
“Fuck—oh God—” I yelp, burying my fingers in his shoulder blades.
He’s thick. Massive. It’s overwhelming—too much—and yet not enough. He’s barely moving, keeping a steady rhythm that feels like punishment. Holding back again.
“You’re so tight,” he breathes. “So fucking delicious.”
“Yeah?” I snap, dragging my nails along his collar. “Then stop acting like I’m breakable and fuck me like you mean it.”
His hand shoots to my throat, not tentative this time. His fingers curl with purpose, pressing down until my pulse stutters beneath them. His other hand braces against the mirror, and I swear the glass trembles with the force of his restraint.
I can’t breathe, but I don’t care. Not yet. The lack of air makes everything feel more vivid, more real.
“You like it rough?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“Congratulations, genius,” I rasp, my lips curling into a smirk. “You’ve cracked the code.”
Our eyes meet—and this time, there’s no mask. No effort to hide what’s seething beneath the surface. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw so tight he might crack a tooth.
And then he fucking loses it.
He yanks me to the very edge of the counter and drives into me so hard I cry out, pain and pleasure blurring until I can’t tell which is which. He slams in again. Again. The rhythm gone. No more patience. No more performance. Just a brutal, consuming need to destroy something—and lucky me, I’m what he’s chosen.
Everything becomes a blur. My name? Gone. Breathing? Optional. Planet Earth? Who cares. My sole reality is this—the sensation of him pounding into me.
He grips my throat a little tighter, and I’m starting to feel light-headed. But I’m so turned on and ready to come that I allow it. He adjusts my hips, finds a new angle, and the next thrust sends my body lurching, legs quaking. I’m on the edge—past the edge—free-falling. And when my orgasm finally crashes over me, it’s nothing short of cataclysmic.
“Jesus—fuck—” I whimper.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”
I shatter. Completely, utterly. With a deep, guttural groan, he releases inside me, his cock pulsing as he spills his cum. I gasp for air while thanking whatever cosmic forces led me to start birth control at 16.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of our breathing—harsh, uneven. His hands stay clamped on my waist, keeping me close.
I glance up at him. He’s staring at the wall. Jaw tense. Eyes dead cold again. No trace of the man who just ripped me open with his cock and growled in my ear. Just cold detachment. Like a mask slipping back into place.
My heart pounds in my chest, not from orgasm now, but from dawning awareness.
This is a very dangerous man.
Then I glance at my watch, and a breathless laugh escapes me. Seven and a half minutes. Exactly.
And now, I have precisely thirty seconds before my guards burst through the door like the overzealous hounds they are.
“That was… something,” I manage to gasp. “Thank you.” I slide down to the floor, adjusting my dress. “So, how much do you want for keeping this a secret?”
I’m already reaching for the money stashed in the cup of my bra as he grabs my wrist and pins it behind my back.
“I don’t need your money,” he whispers in my ear, then bites down on my earlobe. “Your company was payment enough.”
His teeth scrape along my skin, and I shiver again despite myself. “You can’t tell anyone about this,” I warn.
“I won’t,” he says smoothly, bending down to retrieve something from the floor. Before I can ask what he’s doing, he straightens, holding my thong.
“This’ll do.” He tucks it into his pocket like it’s a bloody trophy.
“Excuse me?” I blink, bristling. “Give that back.”
“We should do this again sometime,” he replies coolly.
“I can’t,” I breathe. “Engaged. Remember?”
He catches my wrist and pulls it up, inspecting my fingers. “No ring,” he mutters. “Not married yet. I’ll make sure to find you before your big day.”
With that, he vanishes through the door, leaving me reeling and puzzled. Why did his last words sound like a bloody thread? And why do I feel an inexplicable pull towards someone like him, despite every instinct screaming at me to run in the opposite direction?
It’s unlike me to be so easily swayed by a stranger, but something about him has gotten under my skin. And I don’t even know his fucking name.
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