Aria’s apartment was a disaster.

Empty bottles littered the counter. Ashtrays overflowed. The blinds were broken, leaving jagged slits for moonlight to bleed through. The faint stench of powder clung to everything—clothes, sheets, even the peeling wallpaper.

Her two dogs—mangy rescues that barked at every sound—bounded up as soon as she pushed the door open. One leapt at her thigh, the other spun in circles, tails wagging like they hadn’t just been fed scraps from the neighbor.

“Hey, babies,” she crooned, dropping her purse with a heavy thud. She bent to scratch their ears, their noisy affection grounding her more than any pill or powder ever had. “Mama’s home.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Home.

What a fucking joke.

She stumbled toward the couch, kicking off her shoes, and collapsed onto the stained cushions. The dogs jumped up beside her, pressing warm bodies into her sides, whining softly like they knew something inside her was breaking.

She let her head fall back, closing her eyes. But she didn’t see darkness. She saw him

Damian.

The man in the shadows.

The man everyone whispered about. The man she should’ve been terrified of.

Instead, all she could think about was the weight of his stare, the quiet fury in his voice, the way her skin still tingled where her palm had rested against his hand. It hadn’t even been a real touch—barely more than a brush of skin against skin. But it had seared her deeper than any man’s hands ever had.

God, she could still feel it.

Her thighs squeezed together before she even realized it, a wave of heat rushing through her veins. Shame tangled with it, sharp and bitter. She had spent years avoiding men, years teaching herself that their hunger was poison, that their hands were knives. But one look from Damian, one rough word, and she was aching.

Pathetic, she told herself, just like he had.

She lit a cigarette with shaky fingers, dragging the smoke deep into her lungs. It dulled the edge, blurred the memory, but didn’t erase it. Nothing could erase him.

Her phone buzzed on the table. A text from her sister lit the screen: Mom’s medicine is almost finished. Can you send money this week?

Aria’s chest tightened. She didn’t have it. Not yet. She’d have to work more shifts, take more clients, swallow more shame. Her sister didn’t need to know that. Her sister didn’t need to see what Aria was turning into just to keep them afloat.

She typed back quickly: Don’t worry, I’ll send it.

A lie, for now. But a lie wrapped in love.

Her dogs curled against her legs, warm and loyal. She exhaled smoke toward the cracked ceiling and whispered, “You two are the only men I’ll ever trust.”

But even as the words left her mouth, she knew they weren’t true.

Because she had trusted him, in a way no one else could understand. She had touched the Mafia’s lion, and instead of devouring her, he’d let her live.

And now she couldn’t stop wondering… what would happen if she touched him again?

The thought made her body stir, restless, hungry in a way she hadn’t felt in years. She hated herself for it. She hated that a killer could make her feel alive.

But when her eyes drifted shut, she didn’t dream of powder or bills or her mother’s tired voice.

She dreamed of Damian’s hands.

Hands that had ended lives.

Hands she wanted on her skin.

Hands she feared might be the only thing strong enough to put her back together.