Ivan Bogdanov

The bass from the speakers vibrated against my chest the moment I stepped through the door. The dim lights and swirling smoke gave the place a hazy, almost cinematic glow, like a dream you know you shouldn't have... but can't resist.

I shouldn't have been here. Not in a place like this. Not with the name I've made for myself.

But tonight, I hadn't come as Don Moretti. I hadn't come to inspire fear, shake hands, or conduct business in the shadows. I had come to disappear… just for a moment. And perhaps… to see him.

I slipped into the leather bench at the back of the room, the one barely touched by the lights. My men knew they had to stay at the front. That was private. Personal.

Then he went on stage. You.

Damn.

Each of her movements felt like a silent challenge. A gentle, seductive rebellion against the world. No bulging muscles or exaggerated bravado… just long lines, precise rotations, and a suppleness that seemed to belong more to fantasy than reality. Slender, small, almost delicate… but dangerous in the way that only beautiful and untouchable things know how to be.

He danced like he owned the place. And maybe he did. Damn, I had millions in offshore accounts, ten city blocks under my control, but at that precise moment? He was the one in charge.

I tilted my glass towards the stage, catching the glare of the spotlight on the rim.

My voice was low, more for myself than for anyone else.

“…That’s the kind of trouble I like.”