Chapter 1: The Five-Hundred-Dollar Kiss “Five hundred dollars. One kiss. That's all you have to do.”

His mouth crashed down on mine before I could draw another breath.

If the first kiss in the dim corner of the velvet lounge had been a daring spark, this was a wildfire devouring dry timber. Nico didn’t ask for permission; he claimed it. His large hands slid from my hips up to the nape of my neck, his long fingers tangling in my hair with a firm, possessive urgency that sent an electric shock shooting straight down my spine.

I gasped against his lips, and he took ruthless advantage, deepening the kiss until the room spun around me. He tasted of aged bourbon, dark mint, and sheer, untamed power. Every rational thought, every memory of my suffocating debt and the terror of Victor’s threats, disintegrated beneath the heat of his touch.

My hands, acting entirely on their own frantic instincts, gripped the lapels of his tailored suit jacket. The fine Italian wool was rough against my trembling palms, but beneath it, his chest was solid rock. He pulled me closer, lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of the heavy mahogany desk. My knees parted instinctively to frame his hips, anchoring him against me.

"Nico..." I breathed into his mouth, trembling from the sheer intensity of him.

"You're shaking, *tesoro*," he growled low against my jaw, trailing searing kisses down the sensitive curve of my throat. His stubble grazed my skin, sending shivers pooling low in my belly. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No," I lied, my voice breathless and thick.

He chuckled, a dark, vibrating sound against my pulse point. "You should be. Because once I put my hands on something, I never let it go."

His words should have sounded like a prison sentence. Instead, they sounded like salvation. For years, I had been completely alone, drowning in medical bills left behind by my late mother, hunted by predators like Victor who saw women as currency. But here, caged between the lethal arms of Nico Moretti, I felt safer than I ever had in my entire life.

He pulled back just an inch, his silver-gray eyes glowing in the low lamplight like polished steel. His breathing was ragged, his tailored tie slightly crooked—the only flaw in an otherwise untouchable god of the underworld.

"Sleep in my quarters tonight," he ordered softly, his thumb tracing the swollen contour of my lower lip. "Tomorrow, the city will know who you belong to."

Before I could answer, a sharp, urgent knock rattled the study doors.

Marco’s muffled voice broke through the haze of passion: "Boss. We have a problem at the western docks. It’s Victor. He didn't take your warning sitting down."

Nico’s jaw tightened, turning to granite in a fraction of a second. The lover vanished; the Don took his place. He stepped back, straightening his cuffs with deadly precision.