Matteo's POV

The only reason I came to this circus of flashing lights and sweating bodies was to see the owner of the club. One of my best friends, unfortunately.

He’d been pestering me to show up for weeks..

So I showed up reluctantly.

Half-expecting to be bored out of my goddamn mind.

Then she ran into me.

Correction, she slammed into my chest like the universe had just tripped and fallen into my arms.

My first reaction?

Annoyance. Obviously.

People don’t bump into me. Not unless they want to lose something important—like teeth. Or lungs.

But her scent.

Fuck.

It hit me like a blade pressed against skin. It was so unexpected and sharp, beautiful in the way poisons are beautiful.

A subtle blend of danger and sweetness. Spice and smoke and something feral beneath it all.

I looked down, and hell opened a door.

Shoulder-length hair, slightly mussed from dancing.

Light caramel skin kissed by the chaos of neon strobes.

And unnatural and haunting violet eyes.

They pinned me before I could even think of blinking.

The music felt like it’d dipped below the surface of the world. Muted. Distant.

Like time itself was smart enough to pause.

What the fuck are you?

She looked up at me, swaying slightly, her hands pressed to my chest like I was the only thing keeping her upright.

She was drunk.

Trying not to look it. Failing in the most fascinating way possible.

My lips curved and I leaned in.

Close enough for only her to hear.

“I’m going to claim you.”

And there it was.

That beautiful, involuntary reaction.

Her legs shifted. She felt it. And she hated that she felt it.

God, I loved that. I didn’t give her time to form a sentence.

I swept her off her feet in one smooth motion—one arm under her knees, the other behind her back.

She gasped, trying to protest. Her hands clutched my shoulders.

But she didn’t fight me.

I cut through the crowd like a shadow through fog. Up the stairs.

Down a quiet hallway pulsing with distant bass.

Click.

I opened the door to my private room. A dark and sleek room.

Just dim lighting, velvet couches, glass and steel.

I stepped inside, kicked the door shut with my footwear, and placed her gently on the leather couch like she was made of glass. But glass I wanted to shatter.

I stood over her, unhurried, letting my eyes rake over her from head to toe

Violet eyes. Stubborn jaw.

Full lips that looked like they’d curse me out mid-kiss.

I grinned.

Not the kind that says I like you.

The kind that says I know exactly how you’ll break, and I want front row seats.

She looked like sin wrapped in silk.

Violet eyes that didn’t blink. A mouth made to make men kneel and bleed. And not a single trace of fear.

Intriguing.

I leaned in, slow and deliberate, inhaling the scent of her like she was already mine.

She smelled like trouble. Like gunpowder and temptation in a dress.

My hand slipped beneath the hem of her gown, fingers trailing up smooth skin, hungry for more.

And then, like a trap snapping shut, she caught my wrist.

“Clothes stay on,” her voice purred. She didn’t sound nervous or shy.

I blinked once, slowly. Then let out a low chuckle.

“Pity,” I murmured. “But I’m a generous man.”

Lie.

But she didn’t need to know that yet.

I adjusted. No pressure.

I was here for the game. So I kissed her.

And—

God have mercy on my soul.

It was like kissing fire. It wasn’t soft or sweet. It was Devouring.

Like she wanted to eat the chaos out of me before I could do the same to her.

Her arms looped around my neck, dragging me closer. Her tongue fought mine like it had something to prove.

Which was adorable, considering I had every intention of winning.

Suddenly, the world flipped.

There was no warning or visible effort.

One second I was over her, the next I was the one laid out on the leather couch, breath knocked clean from my lungs.

What the—?

She stood over me, cool as nightfall, packing her hair back into a loose twist with a few precise fingers.

Like rearranging me had been an afterthought. Like I was the appetizer, not the threat. My heart thudded hard.

Not from surprise.

From arousal.

There was a pressure building in my pants, thick and pulsing and impossible to ignore.

All from a kiss.

A fucking kiss.

What the hell was she made of?

Then she tilted her head down and smiled—slow, dark, and amused.

“Close your eyes,” she murmured, voice slick and quiet like oil spreading over water. “Unless you think I’m about to kill you.”

That smile said she could. That voice said she might. And fuck me, that only made me harder.

I closed my eyes.

Not because I trusted her.

But because I didn’t.

And that made it so much more fun.

Then I felt her hands, cradling my face like she was handling a loaded gun. She felt delicate yet dangerous.

Her hips found the rigid line of my cock, pressing down in a slow, maddening grind that pulled a groan straight from my chest.

And then her mouth found mine again.

Hot. Starving.

She kissed like she was trying to set a precedent—I’m in control.

But if that was the case, she shouldn’t have let me grab her ass.

Because once my hands landed there, I pulled her tighter. Forced the rhythm faster.

We ground against each other like we were trying to carve out something new with our bodies and our mouths.

My shirt didn’t survive the next minute.

She slipped it off with an efficiency that made me suspicious and aroused.

And then she finally peeled herself out of that dress.

It hit the floor with a whisper.

And fuck me. She was art.

Carved curves and wicked thighs I would’ve gladly died between.

But she was more than beautiful. She was lethal.

And I didn’t want to look.

I wanted to consume.

I yanked her forward by the waist and snapped her bra loose, not caring how it tore.

One of her perfect breasts filled my mouth a heartbeat later, and the sound that followed, I don’t know if it was her moan or my groan.

Might’ve been both. Might’ve been neither.

All I knew was this:

I wanted to unravel her. With my tongue, with my teeth.

I licked. Bit. Sucked.

Her nipple peaked harder in my mouth, and the noise she made—Christ.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was raw. Like pleasure dragged straight from the back of her throat.

Her hips didn’t pause. She kept riding the ache between my legs like she wanted to break me, grinding down over my cock with increasing force, pace building like a storm about to hit.

And fuck, I felt it.

Every rub. Every drag of heat against the bulge.

My dick throbbed like it was going to split through the seams and finish this for both of us.

I groaned again, deep and hoarse, grabbing a handful of her ass to pull her harder against me, grinding her into my lap until friction wasn’t enough.

Wasn’t fucking close to enough.

I wanted to be inside her. I wanted to be buried inside her, to be lost. To be gone.

But I didn’t stop her. Didn’t take control.

Because I didn’t want to.

She had me on my back. Hands full of curves and heat and a mouth like ecstasy.

And I was loving every goddamn second of it.

What kind of woman flips a man like me onto his back and makes him feel like he's about to come just from dry grinding and a taste of her skin?

A dangerous one.

A different one.

The kind you don’t just fuck and leave.

The kind that wrecks you, and somehow, you thank her for it.

I looked up at her—lips parted, hair loose now, violet eyes locked onto mine like she could see every unhinged, broken part of me and wanted to play with it.

It was beautiful and wicked.

And completely unknown. What’s even her name?

I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I’d ask tomorrow.

If she didn’t kill me in my sleep. But something told me this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Francesa’s POV

Two weeks later

I adjusted the collar of my crisp black shirt, rolling my shoulders as I took in my reflection. The brown contacts dulled the intensity of my usual violet eyes, and the short, tousled wig completed the disguise.

Dressed in a fitted suit with a masculine cut, I could pass for a man without question because of my athletic build.

They won’t suspect a thing.

And I couldn’t afford any more distractions.

Especially not after that night.

God.

That stupid, reckless night.

I told myself I’d never go to a party again.

Never again let Claudia’s chaotic energy pull me into some glittering hellhole packed with sweat and lust and too many drunk souls with no sense of danger.

And yet, I was getting drunk.

Letting my guard down like a fucking idiot.

But what really kept me up afterward…

Was him.

Some stranger with a voice so deep and a touch that fried my brain like static on wet skin.

I didn’t even bother to ask his name.

Didn’t care. Just bodies colliding in the dark, hot and unhinged.

The kind of contact that burned its way under the skin and whispered things no assassin should ever feel.

How the hell did I do something so erotic, so mindless, with someone I didn’t even know?

I hated it.

And I loved it.

And I hated that I loved it.

The morning after, I woke up in some sleek, unfamiliar room.

My gown was crumpled on the floor like the remnants of my common sense.

Thank the stars I’d removed my hidden weapon before my brain decided to melt under his touch.

Because one wrong grip of my thigh and his hand would’ve met steel.

That would've ruined the moment, wouldn't it?

I don’t remember much else.

Just flashes. About his hand, his scent, his voice.

Never again.

I reminded myself that there’s no room for indulgence in my line of work.

Desire makes you hesitate. Hesitation gets you killed.

Now I had to focus. Because the mission Mr. Edwards gave me two weeks ago wasn’t just important.

It was personal.

My chance to avenge my sister.

***

Flashback- a week ago

“No.” His voice lost its amusement, turning cold. “This time… it’s about her.”

I froze.

My fingers tightened around the edges of the folder, the paper crinkling under my grip.

I lifted my gaze, my purple eyes burning into his. “Go on.”

“The document you hold is an application to be a bodyguard in the Syndicate”

Edwards leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. "The De Luca Syndicate is looking for new bodyguards," he said. "And you’re going to be one of them."

I scoffed, flipping the folder open. My gaze skimmed over the official documents, the requirements, the fine print. The De Luca crest stamped in the corner sent a sick thrill down my spine.

"Only men allowed," I murmured.

Edwards nodded. "That won’t be a problem for you. You will be in disguise.” He leaned closer. "Now you have the chance to avenge your sister after all these years.”

I had felt my pulse thrum in my ears. My fingers pressed harder into the paper, threatening to tear it. After all these years.

I lifted my chin, forcing my expression into something neutral. “And the target?”

Edwards smirked, tilting his head slightly. “The heir to the Syndicate.”

A slow, cold smile crept into my lips. Killing two birds with one stone. I finally had a way in, and now the Syndicate was practically opening the door for me.

"Why do they want him dead?" I asked, keeping my tone casual, but my grip on the folder betrayed me.

Edwards shrugged, his sharp eyes watching me too closely. "Power struggles, internal betrayals, typical underworld nonsense." He waved a dismissive hand. "But that’s not your concern, is it?"

I met his gaze, holding back the storm brewing inside me. "No," I admitted. "I don’t care why they want him dead."

What mattered was who he was.

The son of the man that killed my sister.

Then we’re in agreement."

I snapped the folder shut. "When do I start?"

"In two week. You’ll need to prepare."

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders back. “Disguising as a man won’t be an issue. But they’ll be testing all applicants. What kind of tests?”

Edwards smirked. "Physical endurance, firearms proficiency, hand-to-hand combat. All the things you excel at." His eyes gleamed with something like amusement. "Honestly, they should be worried about you more than the other way around."

I tapped the folder against my palm, considering the challenge. "And my cover?"

"We have documents, ID, and a fabricated background for you. As far as the Syndicate is concerned, you’re just another mercenary looking for work."

I exhaled through my nose, a slow, steady breath. The memory of my sister’s scream echoed in the back of my mind. I pushed it down. Locked it away.

I am stronger now.

I turned, heading for the door.

"Francesa."

I paused, glancing over my shoulder.

Edwards’ expression was unreadable, but his voice was smooth. "Make it count."

A slow smirk tugged at my lips. "I always do."

***

Present day

A week of preparation, of adjusting my stance, my voice, the way I moved. All for this moment. I grabbed my car keys from the dresser. Time to drive into the lion’s den. And set it on fire from the inside.

————

The towering iron gates of the De Luca estate loomed ahead, a silent warning that I was about to step into the belly of the beast. The guards flanking the entrance were dressed in black, their hands resting on the weapons at their sides, eyes sharp with suspicion.

I slowed the car to a stop, rolling down the window as one of them approached. His gaze flickered over me, taking in the sharp lines of my disguise-short hair, masculine features, the slight stubble I had carefully applied.

“ID,” he demanded.

I pulled out the forged identification card, passing it to him without hesitation.

“Franco Moretti,” I said, my voice dropping into the rougher, deeper tone I had practiced for days. “Here for the bodyguard application.”

The guard took his time examining the ID, his eyes narrowing slightly before he gestured for another man to check the system. I kept my expression neutral, steady. This was routine. They wouldn’t find anything out of place.

“You armed?” the first guard asked, nodding toward the car.

I shook my head. “Didn’t bring anything but myself.” A calculated lie. I knew they’d search the car anyway.

He motioned for me to step out, and I obeyed, standing still as they conducted a quick pat-down. Finding nothing, they turned to the vehicle, opening the trunk, checking beneath the seats. I waited, my posture relaxed, like I had nothing to hide.

Finally, the second guard returned, giving the first a nod. “He’s clear.”

The first guard handed back my ID, his expression still unreadable. “Drive through. Park in the designated lot. Someone will escort you inside.”

I gave a curt nod, rolling up the window as I eased the car past the gate.

The estate stretched ahead, a fortress of wealth and power. Every inch of it screamed control, arrogance. They thought they were untouchable.

They had no idea that death had just walked through their front door.

I pulled into the designated parking area, shutting off the engine with a steady hand.

I stepped out of the car, the faint click of the door echoing against the stillness of the estate grounds. A suited escort was already waiting. His expression was blank, but he moved efficiently.

“Follow me,” he said, without even glancing twice.

I adjusted the collar of my jacket, making sure everything was still in place.

We moved through pristine halls that reeked of old money and blood-covered secrets. Marble floors stretched endlessly beneath our feet, and polished portraits of De Luca ancestors lined the walls like silent judges.

Eventually, I was led into a wide lounge area. Several applicants of different build were already seated, dressed in varying degrees of professionalism and arrogance.

I blended in easily. And waited.

Minutes dragged by.

The room smelled of cologne, cheap ambition, and nerves. My fingers tapped once against my thigh—an old habit I buried as quickly as it surfaced.

Then a man approached us. He had the air of someone used to being obeyed, shoulders squared like the military had once been home. He cleared his throat and gave a curt nod.

“It’s time,” he said. “But before we begin the interviews… the Heir of the De Luca Syndicate wants to see you all.”

The heir?

We were taken into a different room that is deeper inside the estate. The walls here were darker. Velvet drapes and polished wood swallowed the lights.

He stood near the window, his back to us. One hand tucked in his pocket. The other held a glass of dark liquor.

He had a board shoulder and a sharp waist.

Casual command in the way he stood. Something about that back…

That’s too much of a coincidence.

It couldn’t be.

I shoved the thought aside.

Then he turned.

My breath caught. Just for a second.

There he was.

The man from two weeks ago.

The stranger who touched me like he owned my skin. The man whose mouth turned my thoughts to static.

The man I let in, stupid and drunk and burning with something I never should’ve allowed to surface.

I’d run my hands down those abs. Bit into that collarbone. Felt him groan into my neck like he wanted to drown in me.

And now here he was.

The Heir of the fucking De Luca Syndicate.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Francesa's POV

My body went stiff. This was the kind of stiff that coiled beneath your skin like a snake, waiting to strike.

The man who'd led us in leaned toward the heir and spoke in low tones. The bastard didn't even look our way. He was arrogant and relaxed. Like none of us were a threat.

Pity.

I should've slit his throat when I had the chance. Right after he made me come so hard I forgot my damn name.

My jaw ticked.

If I'd known he was the heir back then, I'd have gutted him. slowly and lovingly. Maybe hummed a lullaby while his intestines spilled out like ribbon.

How the hell did I miss this in the files? No way a face like that just slipped past me.

Pathetic.

My thoughts were cut short when the older man turned back to us and barked, "Line up."

We did.

I slid into position, a picture of calm confidence, masking the blade coiled beneath my skin. The heir's gaze swept across us with calculating, and piercing eyes. It looked bored.

He wouldn't recognize me. We'd fucked in the dark. His hands had memorized my body.

And thank fuck I wore those brown contacts. If he saw my real eyes, there'd be no mistaking it.

The aura rolling off him now was nothing like that night.

This wasn't the man who groaned into my mouth like he was starving for it. This wasn't the man who dragged my back up a wall with nothing but his grip and raw hunger. No...this man was lethal.

Deadly in a way that made your spine straighten. Cold in a way that burned.

The expression on his face was carved from stone, all power and precision. If I hadn't seen the wild twist of his mouth when he was under me and inside me, I'd think this version of him didn't even know how to feel.

But I had seen it.

That unholy look he gave me the second he lost control. The way his face contorted when he growled. Just hands, mouths, hips colliding like we were two storms built to destroy everything in our path.

And yet... here he was.

He is danger wrapped in a suit, speaking to us like we were gnats buzzing in his periphery.

"I believe most of you don't have balls in your spine," the Heir said, voice flat with disdain. "You're not here for the weight of the work. You're here for the money."

He turned his back. Always so sure no one would be stupid enough to touch him.

Arrogant bastard.

"So," he continued, pacing, "I'll give you a taste of what being a bodyguard in the De Luca Syndicate actually looks like."

He stopped walking. A slow smile tugged at his mouth, but it was hollow. Void of anything human.

"Take it as a test."

Then he walked out.

The older man beside us snapped his fingers. "Move."

We followed.

Out of the marble corridors and into a garden so massive, the hedges swallowed the sky.

The walls were tall. Dense. A living fortress of thorns and green.

Once you were in, there was no seeing the path. No climbing out.

The Heir stood near the entrance.

Staring like he could peel back our skins and see what we were really made of. His eyes found mine again, as if daring me to flinch.

I didn't.

He held that gaze for a second longer than he should have, then gave a subtle nod to the older man finally walked away.

The click of his shoes on floor was the only sound until it disappeared into nothing. Just like that, the air felt thinner.

The older man, all grit and menace, stepped forward.

"This maze," he said, voice gravel-coated, "is called the Weeping Capillary Maze."

He turned and pointed to a stack of battered crates beside the gate. Inside were old, worn switchblades and belts with single clips of bullets.

"You'll be using these for the test. A blade. And bullets. No guns."

A few men shifted, glancing at one another.

"You'll find barrels scattered in the maze," he continued. "Make it to one, survive, and maybe you'll walk out of this alive."

He walked slowly in front of us, like he was sizing up cattle before slaughter.

"Objective: survive the maze. Reach the other side."

That simple.

But I bet nothing in this place was ever just that simple.

"Some stalks in there are rigged. One wrong turn, and the maze'll slice you like meat for Sunday stew."

He chuckled, but it wasn't warm. "There are traps. False paths. You get lost, you bleed. You panic, you die."

Someone swallowed loudly.

"If you reach the other side within the hour, you're in," he finished, eyes locking on me for half a beat too long. "If you don't... well. That's your business."

My fingers flexed over the knife I'd chosen.

The older man checked his watch, then lifted his head and barked, "Your time has started."

Just like that, chaos.

The men lunged for the weapons. One by one, they vanished into the gaping mouth of the maze. I stepped in behind them, my blade tucked against my palm like an extension of my own skin.

Excitement pulsed through me.

This wouldn't be easy. I knew that. Nothing about the De Luca Syndicate ever was. But the thrill, the rush of danger pumping alongside the quiet voice in my head that told me you were built for this, it was addictive.

The path forked early. Everyone scattered like rats, desperate to find the "right" way. Fools. This wasn't about directions, it was about instinct.

I took a quieter path to the left, letting the walls swallow me. My footwear crunched softly on the gravel. Thorny vines curled from the hedges like warning fingers.

I could've gone for the kill the second I saw the heir. Slit his throat while his guard was down. But I wasn't that reckless. I'd felt his power, his force, and brute strength? I'd give him that. He could crush bones with those hands.

But other abilities? I surpass him there.

BANG!!!

A sharp crack echoed through the maze.

Gunshot. I turned toward it like a moth to flame.

As I moved, I slowed my breath. The scent hit me before I even saw it-iron, thick and metallic. Blood.

I rounded a corner and there it was. A body on the ground, twisted and still, soaked in red. One of the applicants. Young. Maybe twenty.

Dead.

And beside him, crouched with a smirk and a smoking barrel in hand, wasn't another applicant.