Sweet Encounter: Marrying The Strongest Mafia

The club's entrance parted before us like the Red Sea, money and power had that effect. Inside, crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over Italian marble floors and velvet lounges. The city's elite mingled in designer suits and cocktail dresses, their jewelry catching the light like stars.

I spotted several familiar faces, judges, politicians, business moguls. All of them nodded in deference as we passed. The dance floor pulsed with bodies moving to the beat, darkness providing cover for wandering hands and stolen kisses.

We claimed a private booth overlooking the floor. A waitress materialized instantly with a bottle of top-shelf champagne.

"Only the best for tonight's celebration." Primo poured three flutes. His fingers brushed mine as he handed me a glass.

The champagne bubbles tickled my throat. I watched Yesha take delicate sips, red lipstick marking her glass like blood.

"Dance with me?" Primo extended his hand, that familiar half-smile playing on his lips.

I swirled the champagne in my glass. "Not feeling it right now. You two go ahead."

"Oh, poor thing must be tired from all the excitement today." Yesha's sympathy dripped like honey-coated poison. "I'll keep Primo company on the dance floor. You rest."

"Of course." I muttered.

"Hmm?" She tilted her head at my response.

"Nothing." I waved my hand. "You're right, I am tired. Go enjoy yourselves."

Yesha didn't need to be told twice. She practically dragged Primo toward the dance floor. I watched them disappear into the crowd, his hand was already low on her waist.

I nursed my champagne, watching the dance floor below. Yesha pressed herself against Primo, her hands sliding up his chest. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her closer.

They thought the darkness hid them. It didn't.

Their lips met in what they probably imagined was a discreet kiss. I took another sip, deliberately turning my head away when they glanced up at my booth. The champagne had lost its sparkle, tasting flat on my tongue.

Through the mirror behind the bar, I watched them continue, emboldened by my apparent disinterest. Yesha's head tipped back as Primo's mouth found her neck.

"What is such a beautiful woman doing here alone?"

The voice was deep, rich like aged whiskey. I turned to find a tall figure standing at the entrance of my booth. The soft lighting caught the sharp planes of his face.

"May I offer you a drink?" he asked.

My first instinct was to dismiss him as another club prowler, but something in his gray eyes gave me pause. There was no predatory gleam, no desperate need to prove himself. Just quiet confidence and... something else I couldn't quite name.

I glanced back at the dance floor. Why was I sitting here alone, playing the loyal girlfriend? For a man who couldn't keep his hands off my supposed best friend?

My lips curved into a smile. "I'd like that."

He slid into the seat across from me with fluid grace.

"Adrian Constantine," he introduced himself with a slight incline of his head.

"Asteria Mitchell," I replied, studying his reaction.

"Ah, from the Mitchell family? The logistics and transport company?" His tone carried genuine interest rather than the usual social climbing attempts I encountered.

I nodded, a practiced smile gracing my lips. Like most things in our world, the company was just the surface, the acceptable face we showed to society. Underneath ran rivers of blood money and power. The real empire operated in shadows.

"Impressive," Adrian said, and something in his eyes told me he understood more than he let on.

"What about you? Family business?" I asked, taking another sip of my drink.

"I'm an orphan, actually. Made my own way as an art dealer." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Specializing in rare and historical pieces."

Before I could respond, loud whistles cut through our conversation. A group of men had gathered at the entrance to our booth, their eyes raking over me with undisguised hunger.

"Hey beautiful, why waste time with this guy?" One called out, emboldened by alcohol and ignorance of who I really was. In the legitimate world, I was just another pretty face.

I maintained my composure, I'd handled worse. But something shifted in the air beside me. Adrian's presence turned arctic, his hair falling over his eyes as he set his glass down with deliberate care. He rose smoothly and approached the group.

His voice dropped so low I had to strain to hear it: "Gentlemen, I'm going to give you exactly thirty seconds to leave. After that, I'll have your tongues cut out and fed to you, piece by piece, while you watch your families suffer the same fate. And that's just the beginning of your very long, very painful evening."

The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. The men stumbled backward, faces draining of color as they practically ran from the booth.