THE MAFIA’S WORST NIGHTMARE

CHAPTER ONE (Lina’s POV) The moment I stepped into the club, the air shifted. Every head turned. Every conversation dulled. Their eyes fixed on me like I was something forbidden something they shouldn’t touch but desperately wanted to. My dress clung to my body, dark and tight, revealing every curve I had learned to use as bait. Their stares pierced through my skin, but I didn’t slow. I didn’t flinch. I took a seat in the corner booth, crossing my legs carefully. Still, the stares continued. But I couldn’t care less. I was here for one thing and one thing only. The downfall of Adrian Sokolov. Age: twenty nine Net worth: Classified Crimes: Not proven Weaknesses: None They taught me his name before they taught me how to spell. Made me repeat it until it lived in my mouth like a prayer. Adrian Sokolov. Adrian Sokolov. Adrian Sokolov. I learned his habits when most girls learned how to apply lipstick. How he drank his coffee; black, bitter, no sugar. How he killed, quietly, with distance. How he trusted, rarely and never twice. And the people he loved, which was none. The agency had chased him for years. Tonight, they sent me to walk straight into his world. I kept my head lowered, pretending to study the drink menu, pretending I didn’t notice the room changing. Because it did. Not loudly. Not, obviously. But laughter softened. Voices dipped. Something dangerous entered the room. I lifted my gaze. He sat in the far booth, shadows draped over him like armor. Black suit. No tie. Two men behind him. But he didn’t need protection. He observed the room like it belonged to him. Our eyes met. And my breath caught. He wasn’t supposed to be beautiful. They never said beautiful. They said monster. Predator. Executioner. Why the hell was he this fine? His face was sharp and unreadable, his gaze pale and cold. I looked away at first. A server approached. “What can I get you?” “Water,” I said softly. He blinked. “Just water?” “I’m waiting for someone.” It was a lie. But it sounded small enough to be believed. Minutes later, the manager touched my arm. “VIP section,” he whispered. “He wants you.” My stomach tightened. I nodded like I was nervous. Like I was unsure. Like I wasn’t trained for this. The hallway behind the club smelled of bleach and secrets. My heels echoed too loudly. His booth was sealed with velvet curtains and glass. The music was muted inside, like the world had been turned down. He didn’t stand when I entered. He just watched me. Slowly. Carefully. “You look lost,” he said. His voice was low. Controlled. Russian-accented English wrapping around each word. “I am,” I replied. “Sit.” I did, folding my hands in my lap. “What’s your name?” The agency gave me three identities. Anastasia, Lina and Elora. I chose the softest one. “Lina.” “You’re new.” “Yes.” “People don’t come here alone.” “My family just moved to the city,” I said quietly. “I don’t know anyone yet.” Another lie. It slid off my tongue like honey. He studied me like he was deciding whether I was real. “What do you do, Lina?” “I write.” “Write what?” “Poetry,” I said after a pause. “Sometimes stories.” His expression changed. Just slightly. “Poetry,” he repeated. “Yes. It’s… how I make sense of things.” He leaned back. “Most girls here pretend they don’t think.” “I think too much,” I said softly. Silence stretched. “What were you doing in a place like this?” he asked. “I wanted to watch people,” I whispered. “For inspiration.” He laughed once. Low. Quiet. “You’re either lying,” he said, “or you don’t know where you are.” “I know where I am.” “And yet you stayed.” “I didn’t think anyone would notice me.” His gaze dragged over my face. My dress. My hands. “I notice what doesn’t belong.” My pulse thudded. “Do you know who I am?” he asked. I shook my head. “No.” “You should.” “I don’t think I want to.” That amused him. “You’re very innocent for this city.” “I don’t feel innocent.” “But you look like it.” He leaned forward. “I like innocent girls.” I swallowed. “Why?” “Because they still believe things can be beautiful.” My chest tightened. “You believe that?” I asked. “For a moment,” he said. “When they’re with me.” Dangerous words. “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he continued. “Men like me don’t collect art. We ruin it.” “I don’t think you ruin things,” I said. “I think you change them.” His eyes darkened. “Careful, Lina.” “I’m just a writer,” I whispered. “I don’t know how to be careful.” Then: “I could give you a job.” I lifted my gaze. “Doing what?” “Staying with me,” he said simply. “Writing. Watching. Belonging.” My heart skipped. “What does that mean?” “It means you will be mine.” The words wrapped around my spine. “You’d live in my house,” he continued. “Eat my food. Write your poems.” “And you?” “I’d keep you.” I lowered my eyes. “You’d be my plaything,” he said. “My quiet thing.” Perfect. Exactly what I needed. I hesitated, just long enough to look unsure. “I don’t know you.” “You will.” “And if I say no?” “You’ll leave this room and forget me.” “And if I say yes?” His gaze sharpened. “Then you’ll never be the same.” I took a slow breath. The agency wanted evidence. I needed access. His bed would be closer to his secrets than any camera. “I don’t have anywhere to go,” I whispered. He stood and offered his hand. “Then come with me, Lina.” I placed my hand in his. Cold. Steady. Dangerous. As he led me toward the door, I kept my eyes lowered. He thought I was a poet. He thought I was innocent. He thought he was choosing me. But I had been built for this. To love him. To study him. To destroy him. And he had just invited me inside his world.