The VIP room of Inferno is a gilded cage, its opulence a stark contrast to the danger radiating from Endrit Bianchi. He lounges on a red sofa, his gun resting casually on his thigh, his dark eyes fixed on Luna. She stands before him, her pink frock slightly crumpled, her Bambi eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. Her purse lies abandoned on the floor, her hands twisting nervously. Endrit nods to the sofa across from him, his voice a low command. “Sit.”

Luna hesitates, her gaze flickering to the locked door, then back to the gun. Her legs move reluctantly, but as she steps toward the opposite sofa, Endrit’s hand shoots out, catching her wrist.

With a swift tug, he pulls her onto his lap, ignoring her startled gasp. Luna protests, her voice high and panicked. “N-no, please, I can sit there!” She squirms, her small hands pushing against his chest, but Endrit raises his gun slightly, the metal glinting in the amber light. “Stop,” he says, his tone flat but unyielding. Luna freezes, her breath hitching, and he adjusts her so she’s perched on one side of his lap, her legs dangling over his thigh. Instinctively, her arms loop around his neck for balance, her fingers brushing the tattoos peeking from his open shirt. A blush erupts across her face, spreading down her neck in a vivid pink wave. She’s never been this close to a man, let alone sat on one’s lap, and the intimacy overwhelms her.

Luna turns her face, burying it in the crook of Endrit’s neck to hide her burning cheeks. Her breath is warm against his skin, her hair tickling his jaw, and the innocence of the gesture hits him like a punch. Endrit’s pulse quickens, an unfamiliar heat coiling in his chest. Her blush, the way she clings to him so trustingly, stirs a primal urge—to claim her, to taste those pouting lips that tremble with every breath. He grips her chin gently but firmly, pulling her face from his neck to meet his gaze. Her eyes, wide and glistening, lock onto his, and he feels that obsession tighten its hold. “Your name,” he says, his voice a low rumble, more a demand than a question.

“L-Luna,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, her blush deepening.

Endrit tilts his head, eyes narrowing with sharp interest.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”

The question lands like a thunderclap between them.

Luna’s eyes widen. Her cheeks flush as she shakes her head quickly. “N-no! I’ve never… I mean, I’ve never had one…”

Relief and something darker ripple through Endrit’s gaze. But still, a flicker of doubt lingers in his expression. He leans in, his tone turning cold and lethal.
“No one’s touched you?”

“N-no,” she whispers, trembling under the weight of his intensity. “I-I’ve never been with a boy. This is… the first time I’ve ever sat on someone’s lap.”

His expression shifts, softening slightly. A smirk plays on his lips, dangerous and amused.

“Cara,” he murmurs, voice laced with heat, “you don’t sit on a boy’s lap like this. And I’m no boy.”

His hand tightens slightly at her waist, possessive. The idea of her belonging to anyone else claws at him—even if it’s imaginary. She’s unmarked, untouched, unclaimed… for now.

But not for long.

Luna, still flustered, gathers her courage and asks, “What’s… what’s your name?” Her innocent gaze, free of the awe or fear that usually accompanies his reputation, catches him off guard.

Endrit blinks, surprised. Women throw themselves at him, drawn to his power and infamy, yet this girl doesn’t know him. Her genuine curiosity, the way she looks at him like he’s just a man, not a monster, sparks something warm in his chest. “Endrit,” he says, his voice softer now. “Endrit Bianchi. I’m thirty-three.”

Luna’s eyes widen, and she blurts, “You’re so much older than me!” The words slip out before she can stop them, and her ears turn red as she stammers, “I-I didn’t mean it like that…”

For the first time in years, Endrit laughs—a deep, rich sound that reverberates through the room. If his men were here, they’d think he’d lost his mind. No one has seen him smile, let alone laugh, but Luna’s unfiltered honesty cracks his icy facade. She stares, mesmerized by the sound, her embarrassment forgotten.

Endrit leans closer, his smirk playful but edged with something dangerous. “Age is just a number, cara,” he says, his voice a velvet purr. “I can satisfy you in ways those boys never could.”

Luna’s face flames, her hands tightening around his neck as she ducks her head, mortified.

His amusement fades as he shifts the conversation, his gaze sharpening. “What are you doing in a place like this?” he asks, nodding toward the dance floor below, where bodies pulse under strobing lights. Luna’s face falls, her eyes glistening with sudden tears. The question unearths her pain—the roommates who dragged her here, their cruelty, her loneliness. She bites her lip, trying to hold back the tears, but one slips down her cheek. “I… my roommates wanted to come,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “They said I had to, or… or they’d make things hard for me.”

Endrit’s heart, long thought dead, aches at the sight of her tears. A protective fury ignites in him, a vow to destroy those who hurt her. He brushes the tear away with his thumb, his touch gentle but possessive. “No one will hurt you again,” he says, his voice low and deadly, a promise sealed in blood.

Luna looks up, her Bambi eyes searching his, caught between fear and a naive trust that he might mean it. But the locked door, the gun, and the man holding her keep her tethered to a reality she’s only beginning to understand.