CONTRACTED TO DIEON MAFIA KING

First Eye Contact

Chapter 3: First Eye Contact

*Candy’s POV

Dieon Hotel is chaos at 4 PM.

The venue team moves like an army. They own this place. Dieon Hotel — 42 floors of Swedish glass and gold, built by the Dieons, run by the Dieons, paid for with Dieon money. Tonight it belongs to them again.

I’m on setup crew with Alime and six other cleaners. We work beside the event organizers. They shout orders in Swedish, English, sometimes both. We nod, we move, we don’t ask questions. Asking questions means you don’t belong here.

“Scented candles on table 7, not 8.”

“Fold the napkins Dieon-style. Three points, not two.”

“Check the chandeliers. One dead bulb and you’re done.”

My hands move on autopilot. Wipe, arrange, adjust. Move, reset, don’t look up. Don’t think. Don’t draw attention. That’s how I’ve survived three years in this building. Invisible until something leaks. Invisible until I make a mistake.

The ballroom on the 50th floor smells like lemon polish and roses. Ten thousand roses, Alime told me. Delivered at 3 AM from Holland. Round tables in white linen so crisp it could cut. Crystal glasses stand at attention. Chandeliers hang like frozen waterfalls. One dark bulb means one cleaner loses her job. Dieon math.

At the far end, a wine taster works. Older man, black vest, face like stone. In front of him: 100 bottles of wine, eight trays of Swedish appetizers, four kinds of cheese, 10 kinds of chocolate. Everything edible that will touch a guest’s lips tonight.

He sips. Swirls. Sniffs. Writes in a notebook. Then signals his assistant, who takes a bite, waits 30 seconds, nods.

Poison check. Standard Dieon protocol. Important guests don’t die at Dieon parties. Not on their watch. The Dieons don’t care about money. They care about control. About reputation. About making sure nobody ever says “Dieon” and “scandal” in the same sentence.

“Paranoid,” Alime mutters while polishing silverware. “Rich people problems.”

“Alive,” I whisper back. Because Mrs. Smith taught me: alive is better than right. Mrs. Smith lost her job last month for taking home a half-used bottle of cologne. She had three kids and rent due. The Dieons had a rule on the staff room wall: _Zero tolerance for theft. Staff are replaceable. Reputation is not._

Heartless. But fair in their way. You follow the rules or you vanish. I learned that at 19. That’s why I’ve stayed invisible for three years.

Across the room, other workers do more than their jobs. A waitress fixes her lipstick for the third time. Two housekeeping girls braid each other’s hair and add glitter to their cheeks. One adjusts her uniform so it sits tighter on her shoulders.

They’re not prepping the room. They’re prepping for attention.

Because tonight the richest men and women in Sweden walk through those doors. Investors. Partners. Old money and new money. Young heirs with trust funds bigger than our lifetimes.

Alime catches me watching. “Don’t,” she says quietly. “They notice, but they don’t see.”

I nod. Move, reset. My mop hits the marble in steady strokes. The floor gleams under me. No streaks. Streaks mean attention. Attention means trouble.

But I break anyway.

I drop my cloth and hurry to the staff washroom down the hall. Small. White tiles. One cracked mirror. I turn the tap. Cold water on my hands. Rough soap. I smooth moisturizer through my hair, working it into the ends until it stops fighting me. My hair is thick, curly, hard to manage on cleaner wages. But moisturized hair doesn’t look desperate.

From my bag I pull cheap lipstick and pressed powder. Fifty kronor total. Stolen minutes. Stolen dignity.

I dab powder under my eyes. Add a touch of pink to my lips. My reflection looks back — cleaner’s uniform, moisturized hair, cheap makeup. A girl pretending to be something else.

What am I doing?

I stop. Breathe. Sign at myself in the mirror, the way my mother taught me when words got too heavy. She was deaf. I grew up speaking with my hands before I ever spoke with my voice.

_Why?_ I ask the girl in the glass. _He doesn’t know you exist. Even if he did notice you, nothing good comes from it. He’s a billionaire and a mafia king. You’re part of the floor._

The girl in the mirror has no answer. Only hope. Stupid, dangerous hope.

I straighten my collar, wipe a smudge from my sleeve, and go back. Move, reset, don’t look up.

7:45 PM. Final touches.

Workers adjust flowers by millimeters. Someone tests the lights. Someone else spreads the red carpet outside. Real red carpet. The kind photographers stand behind.

This is how big Dieon get-togethers are. The most powerful gathering in Sweden. Wealthy women in gowns that take six months to make. Men in suits worth more than cars. Young adults who inherited islands before they turned 25.

The ballroom fills with sound. Clinking glasses. Quiet Swedish. A string quartet tuning in the corner. Everything is perfect. Everything is expensive. Everything is Dieon.

8:00 PM sharp. The doors open.

And he walks in.

Mustapha Dieon.

The ballroom changes temperature. Conversations dip. Eyes turn.

Single women straighten their backs. Married women pretend they don’t. Young adults forget their phones. Everyone blushes. Everyone imagines things they shouldn’t.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he’s used to it. Black suit tailored to his body like it was sewn on. Sharp jaw. Clean shave. Dark eyes scanning the room like he’s counting exits and threats. He doesn’t walk. He arrives. Power moves with him. Money follows him. An aura clings to him, heavy as the cologne he wears. Dieon No. 7. Dark and expensive.

He’s a billionaire. A mafia king. The man whose name moves stock markets. The man whose photo I’ve seen on magazines in waiting rooms. The man whose voice I heard once through a glass door, giving orders that made millionaires nod.

Behind him walks an older man with the same jawline — Stills Dieon, his father. Chairman of Dieon Group. Silver hair, shoulders still broad at 60. His sister is beside him, young and sharp-eyed in blue silk. Mustapha’s mother is late. Her seat at the head table stays empty. A gold place card sits untouched. Whispers start immediately. “She’s late again.” “Health issues.” “Dieon family drama.” I keep my eyes on the floor. Move, reset.

Stills steps to the small stage. Microphone in hand. Opening speech.

“Welcome,” his voice fills the room. Calm. Controlled. The kind of voice that could end wars or start them. “Tonight we celebrate family. Partnership. The future of Dieon.”

Applause. Polite. Perfect. No one claps too loud. No one claps too soft. This is Sweden. Even applause has rules.

Mustapha waits until it fades. Then he moves.

He guides a man forward — mid-30s, sharp suit, sharper smile. “Father, this is Elias Nord. My new business partner. London real estate.”

Handshakes. Nods. Old money meets new plans. Cameras flash from the press area, but only the approved cameras. Dieon controls the story. Dieon always controls the story.

Then Mustapha turns, and his face changes. Just a little. Softer. Real. The mask drops for half a second.

“Blue,” he says.

The other man steps forward. Same height. Same confidence. Different energy — easier, warmer. Blue. Childhood friend. The one in every photo with Mustapha since boarding school. Always together. Brothers without blood.

They clasp hands. Then shoulders. Real affection. Not Dieon affection. Human affection.

“Still stealing my wine?” Blue asks, grinning. His glass is full. Red wine catching light.

“Still drinking it all?” Mustapha answers, the corner of his mouth lifting. His glass is empty.

They fall into conversation. Old friends. Inside jokes. The ballroom fades around them. For them, it’s two boys who grew up together. For everyone else, it’s a show. The heir and his shadow.

I’m near table 4, refilling water glasses that don’t need refilling. Move, reset, don’t look up. But my eyes betray me. They flick to him every ten seconds. Like a magnet.

That’s when it happens.

Mustapha lifts his empty wine glass. He doesn’t look for anyone. Doesn’t call out. Just holds it up one second, then lowers it.

But his bodyguard, standing near the wall, sees the signal. Massive. Suit, earpiece, eyes that never blink. He scans the room like a machine. No waiter or waitress close by except me. I’m four meters away, tray in hand, trying to be invisible.

The bodyguard taps my shoulder.

“You’re needed over there,” he says, voice low. Not unkind. Not kind. Just fact.

My heart drops.

I didn’t know who needed the refill. I didn’t know it was him. I just know the bodyguard pointed, and now I’m moving. Legs working before my brain catches up.

I turn. And freeze.

Mustapha is five meters away. Talking to Blue. Laughing at something Blue said. The sound hits me harder than it should. Low, warm, real. Not the CEO voice. Not the mafia king voice. Just Mustapha.

I don’t expect to see him this close. Not while he’s with his friends. Not while he’s him. He’s surrounded by people who belong here. People who know which fork to use. People who don’t have holes in their gloves.

I walk anyway. Because the bodyguard told me to. Because Dieon staff don’t refuse. I stop near them. No other staff around. Just me. The glass in Mustapha’s hand is empty. Blue’s glass is still full. The contrast is cruel.

I should go the other way. Disappear. But there’s no way. Tables behind me. Guests on both sides. I’m trapped in the middle.

Then I hear it. His voice. Low. Right behind me.

“Actually…”

I freeze. Is he talking to me? Is that my imagination? Needs playing tricks on my hearing again? My mother used to say my hope was louder than my ears.

I turn, slow. Hands tighten on the tray.

He’s already moving toward me. Leaving Blue mid-sentence. Walking toward me to get another glass of wine. Not waiting for service. Coming to me.

I move too. Without thinking. Eyes locked on him. The ballroom disappears. The music fades. It’s just his steps. My steps. Move, reset, don’t look up. But I’m looking up. I can’t help it.

Three meters. Two meters. One.

My shoe catches the edge of the carpet.

Time slows. Like water turning to ice.

The tray tilts. Gravity wins. Red wine arcs through the air. Crystals from the glasses. Liquid like blood. Disaster unfolding frame by frame.

I crash into him. Full weight. Chest to chest. My hands fly up and hit his shoulders. The whole tray empties down his black suit. Down his white shirt. Down the billionaire fabric that costs more than my rent. More than my life.

Silence. One heartbeat. Two.

The string quartet misses a note. Someone gasps. Then quiet. The ballroom holds its breath.

Mustapha looks down at his ruined suit. Wine dripping from his lapels. Staining his white shirt pink. Frustration flashes across his face. Sharp. Cold. The mafia king face. The face that makes grown men sign papers without reading them.

Then his eyes meet mine.

And something shifts. Like all the air leaves the room, then comes back warmer. Frustration fades. His expression softens. Confusion, then something gentler. Something I don’t have a name for.

“So sorry, Angel,” he says. Quiet. Only for me. Two words that don’t make sense in this room. In this moment. From this man.

I don’t understand the words. Don’t understand the tone. My brain short-circuits. Angel? He called me Angel?

I drop to my knees on the wet carpet. Wine stains spreading around me like a crime scene.

“Please I’m so sorry,” the words tumble out. Too fast. Too desperate. “Please sir I’m sorry, please don’t fire me, I really need this job please.” My voice cracks on the last word. I hate that it cracks. I hate that he hears it.

Fourteen hours until the Demons want $8,000. Fourteen hours until they come for me if I don’t pay. This job is all I have. This job is oxygen.

Hands grab my arm. Rough. Fast. Saving me from my own begging.

“Candy!” Mr. Dan, the supervisor in charge of staff placement, yanks me up. Face red with panic. Sweat on his forehead. He knows what happens to staff who embarrass the Dieons. “Correction room. Now. Go wait for me.”

I don’t wait to hear it twice. I run. Uniform soaked. Face burning. Wine dripping from my sleeves onto the marble. Past Blue’s stunned expression. Past the whispers starting like fire through dry grass. Past everything.

Behind me, I feel it. His stare. Heavy. Warm. Wrong.

I risk one glance back from the doorway. Just one. Heart in my throat.

Mustapha is still looking at me. Not at the wine. Not at his suit. Not at the chaos. At me. Like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.

And Blue sees it. Blue’s eyes narrow. He watches his best friend. Then a slow smirk spreads across his face as he watches the mafia king watch me run. Like he just figured out a secret. Like he saw the first crack in Mustapha’s armor.

The doors swing shut behind me. And the ballroom keeps breathing.