The Mafia King's Obsession.

APRIL

The first time I spot the devil is about thirty seconds before an ice-cold beer hits me in the face.

He's sitting in a booth at the far end of Goody's Bar when it happens. He's not drinking, not talking, just watching me. His eyes are dark, sharp, and heavy with danger, the kind that sends a chill down your spine even when you're trying to pretend you don't notice.

His hair is neatly cut, black as midnight. His suit matches it-tailored, expensive, and so dark it almost swallows the light around him. If fire suddenly started licking at his sleeves, it wouldn't surprise me. He looks like someone flames belong to.

I'm behind the bar, pretending to be busy pouring drinks, but I can feel his stare burning through me. He's got the stillness of a predator, waiting for the right moment to strike. I know I should be terrified, but instead, my pulse is picking up.

His features are carved like stone: a jawline that could split logs, tanned skin, faint lines around his eyes that only make him more intense. Everything about him screams control. Power. Trouble. Italian, maybe. Early forties. Definitely out of my league.

He's too composed, too dangerous-looking for someone like me, a twenty-something bartender barely making rent. Still, I can't help it. Something about him pulls me in like gravity.

I try not to stare back. I focus on the drunks yelling for refills, the smell of beer, the sticky floor, but all I can think about is him. I can feel those eyes on me, steady and consuming. His hands rest flat on the table beside a black cellphone, big enough to crush it in one squeeze. He looks like a man who doesn't have to move to make people afraid.

No one gets close to him. Even in this crowded place, it's like he's surrounded by an invisible wall. People glance his way, then instantly look elsewhere. It's strange, unnerving, but also magnetic.

My first thought is: what's a man dressed like that doing in a dive bar like Goody's?

My second thought, unfortunately-is that my ovaries might've just exploded.

I'm so distracted by him that I don't notice the argument happening right in front of me. Usually, I can sense when trouble's brewing, but tonight, my instincts are off. And that's when it happens.

A shout, a swing, and then a splash.

Ice-cold beer explodes across my face. It drips down my hair, into my shirt, soaking me completely.

It's the usual story-another disastrous first date. The woman's furious, the guy's smug, and she's thrown her drink. He blocks it, and guess who's standing right behind him? Yep-me.

Icy. Imported. Not my kind of shower.

The crowd bursts into laughter. My Goody's Bar tee is plastered to my chest, and I can feel every pair of eyes on me.

"Out!" Joe, my boss, yells. For a split second, I think he's defending me. No such luck.

"This isn't a strip club!" he shouts, pointing at my soaked shirt. "Go get changed and get your ass back here-we're packed tonight!"

A guy in the crowd whistles. "No need to change, sweetheart! You look perfect already!"

Laughter follows. I fold my arms over my chest, cheeks burning. I push past them, refusing to look at anyone.

But I can't help glancing back at the booth. The man-the devil.

He's on his feet. My heart skips. Maybe he's coming to help, to say something, anything.

But no, he just walks toward the bar, calm and cold. No reaction. No emotion. He's there for a drink. Nothing more.

So much for knights in shining armor.

Screw him. Screw the lot of them. Men are all the same-selfish, smug, and dangerous.

I shove through the door and step out into the night. The chill hits me instantly, sharp and biting. The sky is clear, and the city hums around me, but all I feel is the cold clinging to my wet clothes.

At least I don't have far to go. My apartment's just next door, one perk of working at Goody's. I climb the narrow stairs to the fourth floor, unlock the door, and hurry inside, rubbing my arms for warmth.

The apartment's freezing. The heater barely works, and the bills are piling up. Even with my roommate Aria splitting the rent, it's hard to stay afloat. If Joe ever fires me, I'll be screwed.

My fingers tremble as I dig through my closet for dry clothes. I've got three Goody's Bar shirts, all freshly ironed-because apparently, I like to suffer in style. I pull one on and glance in the mirror.

My hair's still damp, sticking to my neck, but I don't have time to blow-dry it. Joe will lose it if I take more than five minutes. I swipe on fresh mascara, a touch of lip gloss-my version of armor and fasten my favorite buttons on my shirt: a tiny bowling ball and an Italian flag. My good luck charms, though they're not doing much good tonight.

War paint on, I head back downstairs, running through the cool air to the bar.

When I get inside, my eyes go straight to his booth. The Italian devil-Diablo Romano.

He's gone.

A wave of disappointment hits me harder than I expect. I don't even know him, but the emptiness where he sat feels like something missing from the room itself.

Jammie's behind the counter, laughing with a group of men like she's born for it. I envy her so much. She can talk to anyone-smooth, confident, untouchable.

"Just fake it till you make it," she always tells me. "Confidence is an act first."

Maybe one day I'll try that. Not tonight.

"April!" Joe barks, waving me over. His face is red, and his voice cuts through the noise. "You planning to take a vacation on my time? Move it!"

He's been like this all week-snapping, stressed, running on caffeine and bad attitude.

"You're not even paying her!" Jammie fires back. "None of us have been paid in three weeks, Joe. You said you'd fix it last time!"

"Cashflow, baby!" Joe yells, ducking into his office. "All sorted in a couple of days."

"You said that last week!" she shouts after him. "How are we supposed to live, huh?"

His reply echoes just before the door slams shut. "The unemployment office is open if you got complaints!"

The laughter, the music, the smell of beer, all of it feels heavier now. I sigh, grab a towel, and start wiping down the counter, pretending everything's fine.

But I can't stop thinking about him.

The man with the black suit and eyes like fire.

Diablo Romano.

Even gone, I can still feel his gaze, like a promise I never asked for, waiting to be fulfilled.

APRIL

I slip behind the bar, back into the familiar rhythm of work. For the next hour, it's non-stop - orders flying, glasses clinking, the crowd's noise growing thicker by the minute. As kickoff time nears, the line starts to shrink. Most people settle into their seats, their eyes glued to the massive screen on the back wall.

Finally, I catch a breath. Jammie squeezes my shoulder and grins at me. "You doing all right, little kitten?"

"Fine and dandy, momma cat," I reply, forcing a smile.

She raises an eyebrow. "You wondering what happened to the jerk who decided to baptize you with beer?"

"I'm guessing nothing. Joe never kicks out a paying customer."

Jammie laughs and shakes her head. "Well, guess what? The tall drink of danger who's been giving you those dark, smoldering eyes all night came over, picked that guy up like a bag of sand, and tossed him into the street. Didn't say a single word."

I blink at her. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Saw the whole thing. His date tried to flirt with him, but he just ignored her, walked straight out, and hasn't come back."

"What did Joe do?"

"That's the weird part," she says. "He looked terrified. Didn't lift a finger. Just stood there watching." Jammie sighs dreamily. "Shame that gorgeous man didn't come back. I was hoping to climb him and ride into next week."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Aren't you spoken for?"

She shrugs. "Mama needs more than one hound dog to play with."

That's Jammie for you - relationships to her are just games. She's juggling enough lovers for a football team, and I can't imagine keeping up with that kind of drama. That life's not for me.

She leans on the counter, still talking. "He was staring at you the whole time he was in here. Guess he's more into the bookish type than the... well, me type." She laughs, lifting her chest. "You should've gotten his number when you had the chance."

"Yeah, right," I mutter. But my heart's already racing again, pounding like I'm sprinting through traffic.

"What's the problem?" Jammie asks, handing a drink to someone before turning back. "You can't stay single forever."

"I can try," I say, half-smiling.

"Look on the bright side," she teases. "At least he got a full view of what your momma gave you."

"Don't remind me."

She grins. "Don't worry, you've got a better rack than mine."

She glances over my shoulder - then her face lights up. "Well, look who it is."

I turn, and my breath catches.

He's here.

Diablo Romano.

He doesn't just walk in - he owns the space the moment he steps through the door. Shoulders back, head high, the kind of confidence that makes everyone move out of his way like he's a storm rolling through. The crowd parts without him saying a word.

"Here's your chance," Jammie whispers. "Ask for his number."

"You serve him," I hiss back. "I can't do it."

But when I glance at her, she's already gone - vanished down the hatch to the basement.

My throat turns dry. My hands tremble. I can't move. He's still coming closer, that same steady stride, eyes locked on me. Cold, dark, unreadable.

When he reaches the bar, he places both hands on the counter, and the air between us shifts.

I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a nervous cough.

He's even more striking up close - tall enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his gaze. His presence is magnetic, commanding.

"Sorry," I manage, my voice barely a whisper. "What can I get you?"

"Scotch. Double." His voice is deep, gravelly, with a faint Italian edge. The sound rumbles through me, low and dangerous, like distant thunder.

"Ice?" I ask.

He just stares at me, silent.

"Okay then," I mutter under my breath as I turn to pour the drink. "No ice, got it."

I try to calm myself, breathing in slow, but my stomach is twisting. When I turn back, his eyes are still on me - piercing, burning right through me.

"Here you go, quiet guy," I say, sliding the glass toward him.

He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a sleek black wallet with a gold-embossed D.R.

"Thanks, by the way," I blurt out before I can stop myself. "For tossing that guy earlier. I appreciate it."

"He disrespected you. I despise disrespect."

He pulls out a hundred-dollar bill and holds it out. "Keep the change."

"I can't. That's too much." I try to hand it back, but he closes my hand around the bill, his skin brushing mine.

The contact sends an electric spark through me. My knees weaken, my chest tightens, and something deep inside me ignites.

"I insist," he says, then lifts the glass and drains it in one smooth motion. "What's your name?"

"April," I whisper.

"Last name?"

"Morgan."

His gaze drops to the buttons on my shirt - a small Italian flag. He rolls up his cuff, revealing a tattoo of the same flag on his wrist.

"Looks like mine," I say with a nervous smile.

"You ever been there?"

I shake my head. "Not yet. Can't exactly afford it on a bartender's pay. But I've always dreamed of going. Wandering through Rome at sunset, eating pizza and gelato. Maybe even living there one day." I laugh awkwardly. "Why am I even telling you this? Like you care, right?"

He looks at me, really looks - like he can see past the words, past the nerves. "When you want something badly enough," he says softly, "nothing can stop you."

I can't speak. I just smile, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.

"Parli Italiano?" he asks.

The way he says it feels like a caress.

"Un po," I answer, holding up two fingers an inch apart. "I'm taking classes."

"Bowling classes too?"

I frown, then notice his eyes flicking to the bowling pin button next to the flag.

"Just a fan," I explain. "I knock down a few pins when I can."

"I used to bowl," he says, almost to himself. There's a shadow in his voice - gone as quickly as it came. "Long time ago."

Then he looks back at me. "Take care, April Morgan."

"And you, uh... what's your name?"

He starts to walk away, stops, hesitates - like he's fighting an inner war. Then he turns sharply and strides back.

He leans in across the bar, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath. My pulse is wild. He smells like musk, sandalwood, and something darker - danger and allure wrapped together.

"You'll get to Rome one day," he murmurs.

I can barely breathe.

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my skin. "Take tomorrow night off," he whispers. "Don't come in. Got it?"

"What? Why?"

Before I can blink, the whistle for halftime blows, and the bar explodes into noise. I look up - and he's gone. Vanished.

I stand there frozen, feeling like something vital has just been ripped away.

Jammie reappears, yelling over the noise. "Did you get his number? Tell me you did!"

"Nope," I say quietly.

"You can't stay the quiet kitten forever, April! You've got to be a big momma cat like me - go on the prowl, take no prisoners!"

But I barely hear her.

Because when I glance over the crowd, my breath catches.

He's there.

Back in his booth. Watching me.

Not moving, not smiling - just staring.

And in that moment, I realize something.

No matter how much Jammie tells me to be the predator, I'm not.

Not tonight.

Because with the way Diablo Romano is looking at me right now, I don't feel like a huntress. I feel like prey - trembling in the dark waters, while he circles with quiet, deadly patience.

I turn away, the weight of his gaze burning into my back. My chest tightens, and I can't breathe.

"Where are you going?" Jammie calls as I rush past her.

"Bathroom. Be right back!"

"You kidding?" she shouts. "We're slammed!"

"Two seconds, I promise!" I yell, already pushing through the crowd.

But inside, I know the truth.

I'm not running from the crowd.

I'm running from him - and from the way his eyes make me feel like I'll never be the same again.

DIABLO

This is not how tonight was supposed to go. I only came here to check out the place before tomorrow night's drop. The plan was simple, come in, look around, and see what kind of trouble might come up. That's it.

The first thing I notice is that this bar is a dump. The lights are dim and yellow, the kind that make everything look tired and old. The table in front of me is cracked and sticky, the seat lumpy and worn down. It's the kind of place that smells like spilled beer and old smoke. Not where I usually spend my nights.

All I have to do is finish my drink and get out without anyone remembering my face. That's the plan. But then I go and break every rule I've ever set for myself.

And for what? Because some woman happened to catch my eye? There are thousands of women in this city, I could have chosen any one of them. But no, fate decided to throw her in my path tonight.

Why her? Why now? Maybe fate just enjoys watching me lose control.

She's working behind the bar, moving fast, keeping her head down. She doesn't know it yet, but she's standing right in the middle of something dangerous. The Rossi Cartel picked this place for tomorrow night's drop, the one job that could fix everything for me. Maybe it's a test, maybe it's a trap, or maybe it's fate trying to screw with me.

I tell myself to stay focused. I need to keep my mind on the job. Brian's outside checking the exits, cameras, and alarms. I just need to sit here, drink my beer, and watch the owner. No talking. No distractions.

But then I did what I swore I wouldn't. I talked to her. I even stopped a guy from drenching her in beer. Then I told her to take tomorrow night off.

What the hell was I thinking?

Every move I made tonight could have given me away. Might as well have hung a neon sign outside saying something big is going down and the Romano family knows about it.

She doesn't know how beautiful she is. April Morgan. That's her name. She hides behind her hair, keeps her eyes low like she doesn't want to be seen. She flinched when I brushed a loose strand off her face. There's something fragile about her, something that makes me want to protect her even when I know I shouldn't.

Her eyes are what get me. Bright blue, deep enough to drown in. They shine even in this filthy light, like the sea near the Amalfi coast. But she doesn't use them much, barely makes eye contact with the customers. I wonder what she's scared of.

Maybe it's her boss. Every time he shouts, she shrinks a little, like she's been through this before. It makes my stomach twist with anger. I want to pull her out of this place, show her something better, something clean.

I imagine what her life must be like. Shy girl from out of town, came here chasing a dream, ended up stuck in this rundown bar. But she's got fire in her. I can see it when she talks about Rome. Her face lights up when she says it. She wants to go there someday.

I told her she should. I even said she'd love it. For a second, she smiled like she believed it was possible.

Her boss keeps peeking out of his office, eyes darting around. He knows something's off. He sees me and ducks back in, probably worried the Rossi Cartel will pull the deal if anything feels wrong. He's nervous, that much is clear. I can tell this job is bigger than anything he's handled before. He yells at the bartenders, but mostly at her.

When he shouted at April, I almost broke his neck right there. But I can't do that. Not tonight. Not when I'm this close to getting my clean slate.

This job is everything. If it goes right, I can finally disappear. Start over. If it goes wrong, I won't be alive long enough to regret it.

I've checked the layout. The back door opens into a small courtyard where the smokers hang out. It's perfect for a fast exit. Everything's set. I should get up, meet Brian, and get out of here.

So why did I order another drink? Why did I stay? Why did I tell her to take tomorrow night off?

I don't know. Maybe part of me wanted to warn her, to keep her safe. But that's not my job. She's not part of this world. She doesn't belong in it.

Still, I can't stop watching her.

April Morgan. I know her name now, and tomorrow I'll know everything about her.

She's perfect in ways she doesn't even realize. Mid-length dark hair that curls slightly at the ends, soft waves that catch the light. She's got that natural beauty that doesn't need any effort. She's probably in her early twenties, far too young for me. Hell, I'm at least fifteen years older, and I've got too much blood on my hands to ever deserve someone like her.

But I can't look away. It's not just her looks. It's the way she moves, the quiet rhythm she taps on the bar when she's bored, the way her fingers dance as if she's hearing music no one else can. Every detail sticks in my head, one after another, pulling me in deeper.

When she talks about Rome, her whole face lights up. For a moment, she forgets where she is, and I can see the dream in her eyes. She loves Italy, takes language classes, even wears a little pin shaped like the Colosseum.

Maybe I could take her there.

The thought is stupid, and I know it. I'll be gone soon, erased like I never existed. My name will vanish, and I'll be a ghost in another country. She deserves more than that.

Abel always said no relationships. They're a weakness, a distraction. You can't run clean if someone's holding you back. And he's right.

So I'll stare, but I won't act. That's what I keep telling myself.

But then she glances back at me, just for a second, and I see something in her eyes. Curiosity. Maybe even hunger. And that's when I know I need to leave.

If her boss sees her looking at me, he'll start asking questions, and I can't afford that. Not now. Not when tomorrow night decides everything.

It's time to go. But even as I stand, I can still feel her eyes on me.

And I already know I'll see her again.