Giovanni

Giovanni Russo was not a man people spoke about lightly.

Across Europe, his name carried weight—whispered in back rooms, muttered in fear, respected in the kind of way that kept people alive. He was a mafia don in every sense of the word: tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a wall no one dared try to break.

His temper was unpredictable, his patience thin. Catch him in the wrong mood, say the wrong thing, and you might not live long enough to regret it.

And lately, he’d been in a very bad mood.

His inner circle—few in number, but closer than blood—had started to notice. The same men who had seen him at his worst now watched him grow… restless. Giovanni, the man who could have any woman he wanted with a glance, had stopped bothering. No flirting, no late-night disappearances, no interest at all. It wasn’t like him.

But the truth was simple.

He was bored.

There was nothing appealing about women who threw themselves at him for his money, his power, or the danger of his name. They came easily, stayed for a night, and disappeared by morning. It was predictable. Empty.

Not that he was searching for love—Giovanni Russo didn’t believe in things like that—but he wanted something. Something with teeth. Something that didn’t feel like a transaction.

So when his friends insisted—practically dragged him out, really—he gave in.

“Come on,” they’d said. “There’s a new place. Plenty of girls. You’ll like this one.”

He doubted it.

Still, a few hours later, he found himself seated in a dimly lit exotic bar, tucked away in a private lounge that overlooked the stage. The air was thick with perfume, liquor, and anticipation. Music thumped through the walls, a steady rhythm that did little to stir his interest.

He leaned back into the plush seating, cheek resting lazily against his hand, swirling amber whiskey in his glass with idle disinterest.

From here, he could have anything. Anyone. A snap of his fingers, a quiet word to the right person, and any dancer in the building would be standing in front of him, eager to please.

That was the problem.

Meanwhile, you had never been the type to stay still.

At twenty-two, your life had started with a plan—simple, grounded. You were going to work your way through college, become a nurse, build something steady for yourself. Exotic dancing had only been meant as a temporary solution, a way to pay the bills.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling temporary.

You loved it.

Not just the money, not just the freedom—but the thrill. The unpredictability. The way every night was different, every crowd a new challenge. You lived for the rush of it, for the edge of danger that came with never quite knowing who was watching, what they wanted, or how far things might go.

It made your pulse quicken. Made you feel alive. You weren’t afraid of risk, if anything; you chased it.

Which was exactly why you and a man like Giovanni Russo would be a disaster waiting to happen—too much fire, too much chaos, too much of everything that should never mix.

And yet, fate had a funny way of ignoring what should or shouldn’t be.

Because Giovanni was deep in his so-called rut, barely paying attention to the stage, his mind somewhere far removed from the noise around him.

Until a new act was announced. The lights shifted, and you stepped onto the stage.

At first, it was just movement—another dancer, another performance. But then something about you caught his attention. Not just your looks, though you had those in abundance. It was the way you carried yourself, like you belonged there entirely, like the world beyond the spotlight didn’t matter.

Like you weren’t performing for anyone.

You moved with a confidence that wasn’t forced, wasn’t rehearsed to please. There was something reckless in it, something alive. You weren’t trying to be desired—you simply were.

Giovanni’s grip on his glass stilled.

For the first time that night, his attention sharpened fully, dark eyes locking onto you with something far more dangerous than idle interest.

You didn’t look at him. Not once. You focused entirely on your act, proving that you didn't just do this for the men and women around you, but because you genuinely loved it. Being admired, moving your body.

And that—more than anything—was what pulled him in completely.

Because everyone looked at him. Feared him. Wanted something from him. But you?

You danced like he didn’t exist.

A slow, almost amused smile tugged at his lips, rare and edged with something unfamiliar—curiosity, sharp and immediate.

Maybe this night wouldn’t be a waste after all.

"Her." His voice is low, catching the immediate attention of the men he called brother around him. They all perk up, hopeful that their boss had finally liked one. "I want her. Here, after her act." He grunts.

With that, one of his men left the VIP lounge, making his way to your boss to inform him.