PASSION: ONE NIGHT STAND WITH THE DANGEROUS MAFIA

"I told you I wasn't interested in what she was selling." The man's voice cut through the bass-heavy music like a blade. Deep. Rough. Controlled. It wasn't loud, but it carried—the kind of voice that didn't need to shout to be heard. I watched him from the edge of the dance floor, my borrowed heels already killing my feet. He was sitting alone in the VIP section, a glass of amber liquid untouched in front of him. Dark hair swept back from a sharp jawline. Eyes so dark they looked black in the dim lighting. He was devastating in the way a storm was devastating—beautiful and impossible to look away from. The woman in the red dress who'd been draping herself over him moments ago was retreating so fast she nearly tripped over her own heels. Her face was pale. Her hands were shaking. "Wait," I heard myself say. "You didn't even give her a chance." I didn't know why I said it. I didn't know why I was walking toward him. Every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to turn around and walk out of this club and never look back. But I was tired of being rational. His dark eyes snapped to mine. That was the first moment I felt it—the weight of his attention. It was heavy. Intense. Like being pinned under something you couldn't escape. "She didn't want a chance," he said. "She wanted something I wasn't willing to give." "Which was?" "Mistakes." I laughed—a genuine, surprised sound that escaped before I could stop it. "A bit dramatic, don't you think?" "Some mistakes cost more than others." His eyes traveled over my face, cataloging every detail. I felt exposed. Seen. Like he was reading every secret I'd ever tried to hide. "You're not from here." "Observant." "You're also not afraid of me." I shrugged, though my heart was racing. "Should I be?" "Everyone else is." "Everyone else seems like they have good reason to be." I gestured around the room. "But I don't know you. I don't know what you're capable of. So why should I be afraid?" Something flickered in his dark eyes. Interest. Curiosity. Maybe even amusement. His lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, but close. "You don't know my name," he said slowly. "That's why you're not afraid." "Should I know your name?" "I think you might." He leaned closer, and I caught the scent of expensive cologne and something darker underneath. Smoke. Leather. Danger. "But then again, maybe not. You don't seem like the type who pays attention to the news." "I pay attention to the news I can afford." I winced internally. Too honest. Too close to the truth of my empty bank account and eviction notices. But he didn't mock me. His expression shifted—just slightly, barely perceptible. "And what news is that?" "Rent prices. Job listings." I lifted my chin. "The important things." "The important things," he repeated, like he was tasting the words. "The world doesn't stop for people like you," I said. "I've got bills to pay. I've got a life to live. And I'll be damned if I let some scary man in a suit make me forget that." He stared at me. I stared back. The music seemed to fade. The crowd disappeared. It was just us, locked in a battle of wills I didn't fully understand. "Zeke," he said finally. "What?" "My name." His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "It's Zeke." I should have walked away right then. Something in my gut screamed that this man was trouble of the highest order. But I was tired of listening to my gut. "Arabella," I said. "My name is Arabella." "Arabella." He said it like he was testing the weight of it. "Pretty name for a pretty woman who doesn't know when to walk away." "Pretty woman who doesn't know when to walk away is exactly the type of woman you should be afraid of, Zeke." His eyes widened slightly, then darkened with something else entirely. Something that made my stomach flip. "You're a strange woman, Arabella." "And you're a strange man." I nodded toward his empty booth. "Sitting alone in the VIP section, scaring away women who want your attention. What's your deal? Bad breakup? Daddy issues?" A low laugh escaped him—genuine, surprised. It transformed his face, softening the harsh lines. For just a moment, he looked almost human. "Something like that," he said. "What's yours?" "Bad night. Bad month. Bad life." I shrugged. "Take your pick." "I'll take all of them." "Greedy." "You have no idea." He gestured toward his booth. "Join me. Drink on me." I should have said no. Every rational part of my brain screamed that I should turn around and walk out of this club and never look back. But I was tired of being rational. "I don't know you," I said. "You know my name." "I know what you told me. That's not the same thing." "And you think I know you?" He tilted his head. "Arabella. Pretty name. Bad night. Bad month. Bad life. That's all I know." "And yet you want me to sit with you." "Yes." "Why?" He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost intimate. "Because you don't want anything from me." "Is that so surprising?" "In my world?" His eyes glinted. "Yes. It's very surprising." My curiosity was a dangerous thing. I'd always known that. But before I could stop myself, I was stepping past the velvet rope and following him to his booth. The bouncer's eyes widened. A murmur rippled through the VIP section. I ignored all of it. Sliding into the plush leather seat across from him, I watched as he signaled to a server. Within seconds, a fresh bottle of expensive vodka appeared, along with two glasses. "Like a ghost," I murmured. "Excuse me?" "You just looked at someone and this appeared. Like magic." "Not magic." He poured two glasses. "Influence." "I thought you said influence was overrated." "Did I?" I frowned. "No. That was someone else." "Ah." He slid a glass toward me. "I remember. The woman who wasn't selling anything. I told her not to be afraid of me because I was useless." I blinked. "You're not useless." "Prove it." "Prove you're not useless? How am I supposed to do that?" "Tell me something about yourself. Something true." I took a long sip of the vodka. It burned going down, warm and welcome. "I'm hiding," I said. "From what?" "From everything." I stared into my glass. "I came here to forget that my life is falling apart. That I have no money, no job, no prospects. That I'll probably be homeless in a month if something doesn't change." I looked up at him. "That's true. That's real. And you probably think I'm pathetic." "I think you're honest." He leaned back, studying me. "Most people would have lied." "Most people are smarter than me." "Most people are boring." His phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it. His expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted. Tightened. "Trouble?" I asked. "Always." "Care to elaborate?" "No." "Lovely." He smiled at that—a real smile, quick and sharp. Then he checked his phone again, and I watched the warmth drain from his face. "Everything okay?" I asked. "Fine." "Your face says otherwise." "I don't have a face that says anything." "Right. You're a stone. Unreadable. Very intimidating." He looked at me, and I saw the tension in his jaw. The way his fingers tightened around his phone. "Who is she?" he asked abruptly. I blinked. "Who is who?" "The woman in the photograph." He was looking at something on his phone now, his expression cold. "The one who was watching you." My blood ran cold. "What?" "Someone sent me a photo. You, walking to this club." He held up his phone. "Someone was following you." "That's not possible." I shook my head. "No one knows I'm here. I told no one." "Someone knows." His eyes locked onto mine, and for the first time, I saw something dangerous beneath his calm exterior. "I think," he said slowly, "that you need to tell me everything." "Everything?" "Everything." But before I could answer, his phone buzzed again. He answered it without looking away from me. "Yes?" Silence. Then his expression shifted—no, not shifted. Disappeared. Became completely and utterly blank. "I'll handle it," he said. "Find out who." He hung up. "Something happened," I said. It wasn't a question. "Someone betrayed me." "Who?" "I don't know yet." He rose from his seat, buttoning his jacket. "But you need to leave." "What?" "Now." "I don't understand" "Tonight never happened." He leaned down, so close I could feel his breath on my ear. "You never met me. You never came to this club. You go home, and you forget this ever happened." "What are you talking about?" His eyes met mine. For a moment, I saw something beneath the ice—something almost like concern. "You overheard something you shouldn't have," he said. "I don't know how much. But I can't take that risk." "Take what risk?" "Find out who she is," he said quietly. It took me a moment to realize he wasn't talking to me. The bouncer was behind him now, flanked by two other men who had appeared out of nowhere. All of them were looking at me like I was a threat. "Wait," I said. "You can't just" "Find out who she is," Zeke repeated. "And make sure she gets home safely." Then he turned and walked away. I watched him disappear through a door marked "PRIVATE" at the back of the VIP section. The bouncer appeared in front of me, blocking my view. "Time to go, miss." "I don't understand what just happened." "That's for the best. Follow me." --- I walked home in a daze, my mind spinning. Who was that man? What had I overheard? And why was someone taking pictures of me? I reached my apartment building, fumbling for my keys. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the door open. Inside, I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, my heart pounding. I was safe. I was home. Everything was going to be okay. And then I saw it. A photograph. On my kitchen counter. A picture of me. Sleeping. Taken from inside my apartment. Someone had been in my home. Someone had watched me sleep. Someone was sending me a message. I spun around, my eyes searching the shadows. And then I saw them. A pair of eyes. Watching me through the window. I screamed.