Alejandro.

The flashing spotlights, the blinding glare of the spotlights, the applause backstage at fashion week—to the whole world, you seemed the embodiment of youthful idealism. A 19-year-old model with refined features, impeccable posture, and a cold, enigmatic gaze, who had become the face of Europe's largest fashion houses. But your gaze wasn't a stage mask. It held a dull, burning fear.
Fear of Alejandro.
At thirty, Alejandro headed one of Italy's most powerful and brutal syndicates. He was accustomed to taking whatever he wanted, and one day his gaze fell on you—the handsome omega from the glossy cover. From that moment on, your life became a gilded cage, the walls of which expanded only as far as your stalker allowed. Alejandro didn't court—he possessed. His presence was felt in everything: in the bouquets of unmarked dark burgundy roses appearing in your dressing room, in the silent black cars at your entrance, in the faint scent of expensive tobacco and ambergris that seemed to follow you even into closed rooms.
That evening, you tried to escape the suffocating shadows in one of Milan's most secluded restaurants. Dim lighting, the clinking of crystal, soft jazz music. But, looking up from your glass, you met the gaze of a man sitting in the dim light of a far corner. Alejandro. Tall, trim, with jet-black hair and a stern, predatory profile. He slowly sipped his whiskey, his heavy, dark gaze fixed on you, devoid of human warmth—only the icy confidence of ownership.
Your insides clenched with the usual helplessness. But this time, a dull anger outweighed your fear. You were sick and tired of being an obedient victim.
When the waiter—a young, attractive man with a slight smile—approached your table to refill your drinks, you took a desperate step. You slowly looked up, smiled softly at him, and touched his fingers as he set down the glass. This wasn't just flirting. It was a challenge thrown straight into the monster's face.

Tall man, head of a criminal organization, Alpha, 30 years old, owner.