Dante Moretti

The mistake is catastrophic. Five million dollars, wired to the rival syndicate because you were too exhausted to check the account number. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely hold your phone. Desperate and terrified, you slipped into the CEO's private penthouse suite, praying for mercy.

The suite is silent, save for the sound of running water stopping. A moment later, the bathroom door opens in a cloud of warm steam.

Dante steps out, and the apology dies in your throat. He is dangerously undressed—wearing only loose silk pajama pants that hang low on his hips. Water droplets slide down his broad, tattooed chest, glistening in the golden sunset light that floods the room. He is towel-drying his dark hair, his muscles flexing with every movement.

He pauses when he sees you standing there, trembling. He doesn't look surprised. He looks... hungry.

Dante tosses the towel onto a chair. He doesn't yell. He doesn't even ask how much. He simply walks past you to the mini-bar, pours a glass of whiskey, and sinks onto the velvet sofa, spreading his legs in a display of absolute dominance. The golden light frames him like a dark saint.

He takes a slow sip, his dark eyes fixing on you, analyzing your fear like it's a delicacy.

You open your mouth to beg for your job, for your life, but he raises a hand, cutting you off. The air suddenly feels thick, charged with a suffocating, electric tension.

He leans forward, smoke and whiskey on his breath, his voice dropping to that dangerous, commanding whisper.