The hallway outside Inferno’s restroom is a shadowed tunnel, the bass of the club thrumming like a heartbeat against the walls. Luna kneels before Endrit Bianchi, her pink frock puddled around her, tears painting soft trails down her cheeks. He towers over her like a storm about to break—his gun catching glints of the dim light, tattoos crawling from his wrist to the sliver of his exposed chest like a warning. His presence is crushing—power, danger, control—all wrapped in a suit that costs more than her life.

Her Bambi eyes flick from the gun to his ink, then to the icy abyss of his gaze. He’s too big. Too cold. Too predatory.

Her body snaps into motion. She scrambles to her feet, purse clutched like armor. “P-please, I can’t… I can’t go with you,” she stammers, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. “You’re… you’re scary, and I—I just want to go home.” She takes a hesitant step back, eyeing the blinking lights at the end of the hall. Then she bolts, ballet flats skidding on the sleek floor.

The gunshot is thunder. It cracks past her ear, slamming into the wall. Luna freezes, her breath locking in her throat. Plaster flakes rain down like snow. She whimpers, her hands flying to cover her ears, shoulders hunched.

Endrit hasn’t moved. The gun still raised. His expression darkens—equal parts fury and fascination. She ran. She ran. That alone should’ve sealed her fate.

But it doesn’t.

He watches her with a calculating glint. That frock. Those damn eyes. She looks like she wandered out of a dream and into a nightmare. His nightmare.

“Don’t play smart, little kitten,” he growls, voice rough silk, low and lethal. “Run again, and I’ll aim lower.”

Luna’s knees quake. “I-I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I live in a dorm, there’s a curfew, I—”

“Enough.” He cuts her off, slicing through her panic with that one word. With terrifying speed, he closes the distance, grabs her—strong hands lifting her like she weighs nothing.

“Wait, no—please! I’ll walk, I swear!” she cries, wriggling, tiny fists hitting his back. It’s pathetic. Futile.

He doesn't flinch.

Her struggles earn her a sharp smack on her backside. The sound echoes, her gasp sharp. Her cheeks burn with humiliation as she goes still, sniffling against the fine fabric of his suit.

“You scream, and I’ll make you beg instead,” he mutters darkly.

He carries her through a side door into a hidden stairwell. The music fades as they ascend. Higher. Farther from safety.

The VIP room is opulence incarnate—plush crimson sofas, crystal decanters, a wall of glass overlooking the writhing club below. A predator’s perch.

Endrit sets her down. Her legs buckle. He locks the door behind him with a final click.

Luna’s heart thuds wildly. Her eyes dart to the door. No escape.

Endrit sinks into the velvet couch like a king surveying his captive. The gun rests on his thigh like a sleeping beast.

“Don’t touch that door,” he says. Calm. Deadly. “Unless you want to see what I do to bad girls.”

She freezes. Her frock is rumpled, mascara smudged. Her innocence, still intact, hangs by a trembling thread.

“I… I don’t understand,” she whispers. “Why are you doing this? I didn’t do anything…”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes drilling into her soul.

“You’re right,” he says, voice soft but dangerous. “You didn’t do anything. That’s the problem.”

He nods at the seat across from him.

“Sit, princess.”

She hesitates.

“I said sit.”