Damian Moretti didn’t like being touched.

Not by the women who threw themselves at him because of his reputation, not by the brothers in the Mafia who clapped shoulders like they shared something deeper, not by strangers stupid enough to bump into him on the street.

Touch was weakness. A door left open for knives, for betrayal, for ghosts he’d buried long ago.

So when her hand landed on his—small, trembling, burning against his calloused skin—the entire world seemed to fall silent.

Aria Kane.

The junkie stripper with eyes too bright for the filth she lived in. The woman who moved like sin and survival wrapped into one broken package. The one he had watched for months, sitting in the same corner, untouched, unbothered.

He didn’t know why he came back, night after night. Curiosity? Maybe. Or maybe it was the way she carried her shame like armor, daring men to look at her but never letting them see her. She was fire wrapped in gasoline, and he kept bringing his hands too close to the flame.

And now she had touched him.

The entire club seemed to hold its breath. He could feel every set of eyes drilling into his back, waiting for the explosion. Some thought he’d break her wrist. Others expected him to drag her out into the alley and end her life the way he had ended so many others.

Instead, Damian simply sat there. Silent. Still. His eyes locked on hers.

Her pupils were blown wide—high, no doubt. She reeked of powder, the artificial sweetness clinging to her sweat-slick skin. She shouldn’t have had the courage to cross the floor. Shouldn’t have been able to close the distance between them. But she had. And now her palm pressed to his hand, shaking like a sinner reaching for God.

He should’ve shoved her away. He should’ve reminded her that his shadow was no place for a woman like her.

Instead… he let her touch linger.

Her skin was soft. Warm. Alive.

Something twisted deep in his chest—something foreign, something he hadn’t felt since he was a boy running streets with Matteo, before they’d built their empire in blood. A flicker. A spark. He crushed it down before it could breathe.

“Go back,” he said at last, his voice low, gravel dragging through silence.

Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue. Like she wanted to say something reckless. But then the bartender shouted her name, breaking the spell. She snatched her hand back as if burned, eyes wide, breath ragged.

The whispers followed her retreat. Crazy. Stupid. Brave. Dead woman walking.

Damian didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Only watched her disappear backstage, her long legs carrying her into the dark.

His pulse shouldn’t have been pounding.

His hand shouldn’t have felt… empty.

Pathetic, he told himself, flexing his fingers.

---

By the time he left the club, midnight had bled into morning. The streets were quieter, the city’s filth tucked away until the sun rose. Damian’s black car waited outside, but he didn’t open the door immediately.

Because she was there.

Aria.

Leaning against the brick wall by the alley, a cigarette between her lips, smoke curling like ribbons around her face. Her makeup was smudged, her eyes glassy, but she looked at him as if she’d been waiting.

He should’ve walked past. He should’ve ignored her.

Instead, his boots carried him closer.

“You shouldn’t follow me,” he said, voice cold.

“I wasn’t following,” she rasped, exhaling smoke. “I just wanted… to see if you’d look at me out here too.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re high.”

“So?” Her laugh was sharp, broken. “Everyone in there wants me to be high. Easier that way.”

He stepped into her space before he realized it, the stench of smoke and powder heavy between them. His hand braced against the wall beside her head, caging her in without touching her. Her breath hitched. For a heartbeat, the air was thick—hot—charged with something dangerous neither of them could name.

He leaned down, his mouth brushing her ear. “Careful, little stripper. Lions don’t like being fed.”

Her shiver betrayed her. Her lips parted, and for one reckless second, he thought she might beg him to kiss her, to ruin her the way she clearly wanted.

But Damian straightened, stepping back, snapping the tension in hall

She exhaled smoke again, trying to hide the tremor in her hands. “I’ve already been ruined.”

And for the first time in years, Damian Moretti didn’t know what to say.