The Mafia's desire

The glass chandeliers glittered like fallen stars, their light bouncing off marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. The Romano estate was less a house and more a kingdom-sprawling acres of manicured gardens, private fountains, and iron gates that whispered power before a guest even stepped inside.

Sophia Moreno paused at the entrance, her fingers tightening on the silver clutch she carried. She felt out of place already, her emerald dress far too simple among the jeweled gowns and diamonds dripping from every woman in sight.

"Relax," her friend Maria whispered, looping her arm through Sophia's. "They're just people."

Sophia forced a smile, but her pulse was racing. Just people? The men in black suits lining the walls weren't ordinary men. Their sharp gazes missed nothing, and the guns outlined beneath their tailored jackets made her stomach twist.

This was no ordinary party. It was the Romano family's annual gala-a gathering whispered about across New York, where politicians, businessmen, and socialites mingled under the roof of the city's most feared mafia dynasty.

And Sophia had no idea why she agreed to come.

The music swelled, violins weaving a delicate melody as couples danced across the floor. Waiters glided between guests with trays of champagne, their movements as rehearsed as soldiers on parade. Everything was perfect, flawless... intimidating.

Sophia's eyes wandered, unable to help herself. Every corner of the estate screamed wealth and power-oil paintings in gilded frames, statues imported from Europe, even the scent of the air: expensive wine and roses blooming in crystal vases.

But it wasn't the luxury that made her uneasy. It was the men. Broad-shouldered, watchful, dangerous. Even in tailored tuxedos, they carried themselves like predators dressed in silk.

One man, however, drew her attention more than the rest.

He wasn't speaking, merely standing near the balcony with a glass of scotch in his hand. The crowd seemed to bend unconsciously around him, leaving space as if proximity alone was a risk. His dark suit was cut to perfection, his shoulders wide, posture straight. Black hair slicked back, jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

And his eyes-when they lifted, sweeping over the room-were as cold as steel.

Sophia's breath caught. Their gazes met for the briefest second, and it felt like a jolt of electricity ran down her spine. He looked away, as though she were nothing, yet her knees nearly weakened.

"Who is that?" she whispered to Maria.

Maria followed her gaze and blinked. "Adrian Romano," she said softly, almost reverently. "The heir."

Sophia's stomach dropped. She'd heard the name before-everyone had. Adrian Romano was rumored to be ruthless, merciless, the future king of New York's underworld. They said he had blood on his hands already, though no court would ever prove it.

Sophia quickly turned away, pretending interest in the musicians on stage. Don't stare. Don't give him a reason to notice you.

But it was too late. She already felt noticed.

Maria tugged her toward the bar. "Come on, one drink won't kill you."

Sophia allowed herself to be dragged, still hyper aware of the man on the balcony. She could feel his presence like a shadow pressing against her skin. She tried to focus on Maria's chatter, the swirl of voices around them, the fizz of champagne in crystal glasses.

Yet when she glanced sideways again, Adrian Romano was gone.

A strange disappointment bloomed in her chest, chased immediately by relief. Better this way. Better to remain invisible in a world like this.

But the night was only beginning.

And unseen from across the room, Adrian Romano hadn't taken his eyes off her for long.