The air in the room was thick with the scent of sandalwood and my own racing heartbeat. The silk sheets beneath me were cool against my bare skin, a stark contrast to the fire igniting every nerve where Nikolas’s gaze raked over me. My wrists were bound to the headboard with a soft, crimson scarf—tight enough to hold me captive, loose enough to remind me I’d surrendered willingly. I lay there, vulnerable, exposed, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as his shadow loomed over me, a predator savoring his prey.

Ryan hovered above, his dark hair falling into his eyes, which burned with a hunger that made my pulse stutter. His hands, strong and deliberate, traced the curve of my waist, his touch both a promise and a threat. The heat of his body pressed closer, not quite touching, but near enough that I felt the electric charge between us. My skin prickled, aching for more, for him to close the unbearable distance.

“Never again,” he whispered, his voice rough with an edge of the wildness I’d seen in his eyes. It sent a delicious shiver down my spine, pooling heat low in my belly. His fingers brushed my cheek, possessive yet tender, as if he were memorizing every inch of me. “They will die a thousand deaths,” he murmured, almost gently, as his thumb traced the line of my jaw, “before they ever touch a single hair on your head again.”

His words were a vow, a dark oath that made my heart lurch with both fear and longing. The intensity in his gaze pinned me as surely as the scarf around my wrists. And then, with that deathly promise still echoing in my heart, he leaned down, his lips brushing the fluttering pulse at my throat. “I promise, Bella,” he breathed, his voice a low growl that vibrated through me, setting every nerve alight.

His mouth claimed mine then, fierce and unrelenting, like a storm breaking over a parched desert. I melted into him, my bound hands straining against the silk as I arched toward him, desperate to close the space between us. His hands framed my face, holding me as if I were the only thing tethering him to this world. The room fell away, the world reduced to the heat of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the way his breath mingled with mine. My heart kept missing beats, my hands—uselessly bound—aching to pull him closer, to drown in him. I tasted him and realized I had been starving. I had loved before, but it didn’t feel like this. I had kissed before, but it didn’t burn me alive.

Maybe it lasted a minute, maybe an hour. All I knew was that kiss, the softness of his lips warring with the ferocity of his need, and the way his skin felt when it brushed against mine—electric, searing, alive. I had been waiting for this man forever, even if I hadn’t known it until now.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and molten, his breath ragged. “You think you can leave me?” he said, his voice low, dangerous, like a blade wrapped in velvet. “I’d burn the world to ash before I let you go.” His fingers trailed down my throat, lingering where my pulse hammered, and I shivered under the weight of his words. “You’re mine, Bella. Every heartbeat, every breath.”

I should have been afraid of the possession in his voice, the raw edge of obsession that laced his words. But I wasn’t. Because he saw me—all of me. The parts I’d kept hidden, locked away behind walls built from years of rejection and fear. I’d always believed I was too much—too sensitive, too passionate, too everything. Not enough but at the same time With him, I was the fire, the light, the passion, the softness he’d been searching for. With him, I was safe to be all of me. With him, I was home.

He opened up the parts of me that I kept hidden away for so long, scared that if a man ever saw all of me he would reject and abandon me. Convinced that I was too much and not enough at the same time.

But as I slowly revealed myself to him he loved every single part. With each opening he showed me that there was never anything wrong with me. I wasn't unlovable, I had been choosing men that didn't have the capacity to love a deeply sensitive, feminine, empathic woman.

I wasn't too much for this man. I was the fire, the light, the passion, the softness he had been looking for and with him I was safe to be all of me. With him I was home.

He didn’t back off . With every layer I revealed, he dove deeper, loving every jagged edge, every soft curve, every vulnerable piece of my soul. He showed me there was never anything wrong with me. I wasn’t unlovable—I’d just been choosing men who didn’t have the capacity to love a deeply sensitive, fiercely feminine, empathic woman.

His lips found mine again, slower this time, but no less intense. The kiss was a vow, a claim, a promise that seared itself into my bones. My body arched toward him, the silk bindings pulling taut as I strained to meet him, to merge with him. His hands roamed lower, igniting trails of fire across my skin, and I gasped against his mouth, lost in the storm of him.

“Bella,” he murmured against my lips, his voice a low rumble that made my toes curl. “You’re my everything.” And as his hands tightened on my hips, pulling me closer, I knew I’d never been more alive than I was in this moment, bound to him, heart and soul.

An armed guard swings open the heavy, engraved wooden door, his curt nod signaling me to step inside. This is only my second visit to the Kim estate, and the sprawling mansion still feels alien, its opulence laced with an undercurrent of menace. Armed men dot the grounds like shadows, their presence a constant reminder of the world I’m stepping into.

Just weeks ago, my mother announced her engagement to Kim Haesung, the retired godfather of the Korean mafia. Tonight marks our first family dinner, and the thought of meeting Haesung’s children, Ryan and Athina, sets my nerves on edge.

Haesung himself is a formidable figure. Our few conversations have left me fidgeting like a child under his piercing gaze, those severe eyebrows making him look like a hawk ready to strike. Though he’s never been unkind, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m one wrong move away from disaster.

Mom insists he’s warm and caring beneath the intimidating exterior, and I want to believe her. She deserves happiness after years of sacrifice. My father died in a skiing accident when I was eight, and Mom devoted herself to raising me, only rediscovering her social life after I enrolled at the Busan Asian Film School (AFiS). If Haesung makes her happy, I’ll support her choice—even if I want nothing to do with the mafia.

Dad was never deeply entrenched in that world, just a bookkeeper who steered clear of the violence. After his death, Mom distanced us from the mafia entirely. My plan is simple: focus on my studies, graduate, and build a career as a film producer, far from the murky underworld.

Inside the grand entrance hall, I pause, feeling like prey in a predator’s den. The glittering gold chandelier casts light over an imposing staircase, but the space feels heavy, oppressive. My last visit was with Mom, and I vaguely recall the dining room being to the right. Hesitant, I glance around, my heart thudding as I navigate this unfamiliar terrain.

The real source of my dread is Kim Ryan . His name alone inspires whispers of fear. They say he’s brutal, merciless—the current godfather of the Korean mafia. The thought of meeting him in person sends a chill through me.

“Isabella, 나의 사랑, *naui salang*,” Mom’s voice calls, her term of endearment—*my love*—cutting through my anxiety. I turn to see her gliding toward me, radiant in a mermaid dress that shimmers like spun gold.

“Mamá,” I say, a relieved smile breaking across my face as I step into her embrace. I press a soft kiss to her cheek. “You look stunning.”

“Tonight’s important,” she replies, her eyes sweeping over my cream satin off-shoulder dress. She brushes a styled strand from my bare shoulder, her gaze lingering on the slit at my thigh. For a moment, I brace for her disapproval—I’ve always struggled with my weight, and this dress feels like a spotlight on my insecurities.

Before she can comment, Haesung descends the sweeping staircase, his presence commanding the room. “Isabelle,” he says with a warm smile. “Welcome.”

I force a polite smile. “Thank you, Mr. Kim.”

“Soon, we’ll be family. Call me Haesung.” His tone is kind, but those eyebrows still make my stomach twist.

The front door swings open behind me, and a woman’s sharp voice cuts through the air. “Really, Ryan? Look at the mess!” A stunning woman in her early thirties breezes in, exuding the confidence of royalty. This must be Athina, Haesung’s daughter. Her scowl fades into a smile as she approaches her father.

“미안, 우리 늦었어, *mian, uli neuj-eoss-eo*,” she says. “Sorry, we’re late.”

A man trails behind her, chuckling. “Glad I’m not the one in trouble tonight.” I assume he’s Basil, Athina’s husband, his friendly demeanor a stark contrast to the tension in the room.

“What happened?” Haesung asks, his voice edged with concern.

My gaze shifts as another figure enters, and my breath catches. Kim Ryan . Blood stains the sleeves of his unbuttoned white shirt, revealing a chest that looks sculpted from gold. He’s towering, with the dark allure of a fallen angel—sharp jaw dusted with stubble, high cheekbones, and eyes the color of a starless night. His grim expression and bloodied hands scream danger, and I instinctively edge closer to Mom.

This man—easily the most striking I’ve ever seen—is the godfather of the Korean mafia. My soon-to-be stepbrother. The thought is surreal, terrifying. Fear coils in my chest, my pulse racing as his ruthless aura fills the room.

Haesung’s brows furrow, his voice sharp. “Ryan?”

Ryan spares his father a brief, irritated glance before stalking up the stairs without a word. Haesung follows, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. I itch to flee to the safety of my apartment.

Athina turns to Mom, her expression apologetic. “I’m sorry, Helena.”

Mom waves it off as if Ryan didn’t just storm in covered in blood. She air-kisses Athina’s cheek, then gestures to me. “This is my Isabelle.”

Athina’s gaze softens as she takes in my stunned expression. “I’m Athina. Sorry about my brother. It’s not always this chaotic at family gatherings.”

I force a tight smile, unconvinced. She tugs the man beside her forward. “This is my husband, Basil.”

“Nice to meet you both,” I manage, my voice strained. Unlike Mom, a natural socialite, I’m an introvert who thrives behind a camera, not in tense family dinners. Tonight will be exhausting.

Mom nudges me toward the dining room, ignoring the pleading look I shoot her. “Seriously, Mamá?” I whisper.

“Hush,” she replies, guiding me to a round dining table—unlike the rectangular one at home. I sink into a chair, Mom settling beside me, the awkwardness from the entrance hall following us like a dark cloud. My muscles tense, braced for danger. Ryan’s bloodied entrance replays in my mind, a stark reminder of the world Mom’s marrying into. Did he kill someone just before coming here?

Mom and Athina chat about wedding plans, but my thoughts spiral. Growing up, Mom shielded me from the mafia, especially after Dad’s death. What little I know comes from school friends—mafia princesses who either swooned over Ryan or feared him like death itself. My cousin Irene was obsessed with him, but I’ve always kept my distance from that world. And I intend to keep it that way.

Athina notices my discomfort and offers a warm smile. “You’re studying film production, right?”

I nod, clearing my throat. “Yeah.”

“That’s fascinating. I’ve never met anyone in that field,” she says, her tone genuine. She’s striking, with plush lips and the same high cheekbones as Ryan. At thirty-three, she’s eleven years my senior, a mafia princess worlds apart from me.

A low, menacing voice cuts through the room.

“Unless you want more bodies delivered to your doorstep, get out of my city.” My eyes snap to the entrance as Ryan strides in, ending a phone call with a growl that sends ice down my spine. He’s changed into a clean shirt, but the air around him crackles with danger.

He pauses to kiss the top of Athina’s head. “It won’t happen again.”

“Better not,” she mutters, her tone teasing but soft.

Ryan approaches Mom, air-kissing her cheek. “Sorry about the blood, Helena.”

She pats his arm dismissively, as if it’s no big deal. My jaw tightens—how can she be so calm?

Then Ryan stops beside me, and my heart lurches. I stand on shaky legs, feeling like a mouse before a lion. His dark eyes rake over me, sharp and unyielding, before locking onto mine. There’s something dangerous in those depths—not passion, but a promise of ruthlessness.

“I apologize for the first impression,” he says, his deep voice more threat than apology.

I swallow, my voice tight. “Isabelle. I prefer Bella.”

He extends a hand—the same hand that was bloodied minutes ago. I stare at it, frozen, unwilling to touch the violence it represents. My gaze flicks to his, and a flash of amusement crosses his face, like a predator toying with prey.

He withdraws his hand. “Since we’ll be family, let’s skip the formalities.” Before I can react, his hands grip my bare shoulders, pulling me against his solid frame. Instead of an air kiss, his lips brush my cheek, searing my skin. His scent—rich, woody, spiked with danger—floods my senses.

His mouth hovers near my ear, his whisper low and chilling. “That’s the last time you disrespect me. Next time, you take my hand.”

The words, velvet-wrapped steel, send a shiver of fear through me. He releases me, a menacing smirk curving his lips, and takes the seat to my left, though other chairs are free. My legs give out, and I drop back into my chair, my pulse hammering.

I glance at Mom, but she’s lost in Haesung’s gaze, oblivious to the threat. Athina’s eyes flick between Ryan and me, concerned with creasing her brow. “Everything okay, Isabelle?”

Not wanting to ruin Mom’s night, I force a smile. “Yes. Just… overwhelming, meeting everyone.”

Haesung raises his champagne glass, his tone firm. “To my new family.”

I lift my glass, my hand trembling, praying I survive this dinner—and this family—intact.

To be continued

Rage still courses through my veins, a smoldering fire stoked by that Silver Guild bastard who had the audacity to peddle heroin on *my* streets. The nerve of that scum, thinking he could encroach on Busan, my city, my domain. I usually leave the dirty work to my men—let them crush the vermin underfoot—but this time, I needed to deliver the message myself. A clear, unmistakable warning to the Sicilian mafia: cross me, and you’ll bleed for it. I made sure that the bastard's screams echoed through the streets before I was done with him.

I grip the delicate flute of champagne, downing half its contents in one swallow. The sweet bubbles fizz on my tongue but do nothing to soothe the storm in my chest. If anything, they sour my mood further, cloying and weak against the fire of my anger. My eyes flick to the server hovering nearby, and he scurries to my side like a frightened mouse. “Whiskey,” I ordered, my voice low, clipped. Less than a minute later, a crystal tumbler is set before me, the amber liquid glinting in the soft light of the dining room. I take a slow sip, letting the burn of the whiskey slide down my throat, its heat a fleeting balm to the inferno inside me.

My gaze shifts, unbidden, to the girl who will soon be my stepsister. The thought alone twists my lips into a sneer. *Park Isabella.* Bella, as they call her. A problem I didn’t ask for, a complication I don’t need.

She sits across the table, her body angled slightly away from me—not enough to draw overt attention, but enough to signal her disdain. It’s subtle, but I notice everything. Always have. As the head of the Stathoulis family, it’s my job to see what others miss, to read the unspoken in every glance, every gesture. Bella’s cold shoulder is as loud as a shout, and it grates on me more than it should. I know everything about her—every detail meticulously gathered because, soon, she’ll be my responsibility. Twenty-one, headstrong, and of marrying age. A spoiled little girl, ten years my junior, who’s already proving to be more trouble than she’s worth.

Her defiance sparks something in me, a flicker of irritation laced with something else—something I can’t quite name. I think of the way she glared at my hand earlier, her delicate features twisted with disgust, as if my touch was beneath her. A low, amused chuckle nearly escapes me. Brave, I’ll give her that. Fucking stupid, but brave.

“Ryan, have you heard from Christian?” Athina’s voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the table.

“Yes,” I replied, my tone clipped. “He’ll be at the wedding.”

“Where will he stay?” my father asks, his weathered face softening as he glances at Helena, his fiancée.

“Seeing as he’s family, I assume here,” I mutter, uninterested. I don’t bother with wedding details. My world is one of blood and power, not flowers and guest lists. Christian’s attendance was mentioned during a business call earlier—nothing more, nothing less. Athina sighs, muttering something about checking with him, but my attention is already elsewhere.

“Where’s the restroom again?” Isabella’s soft whisper reaches my ears, directed at Helena.

“Down the hallway, second door to your right,” Helena replies warmly.

Isabella rises, the movement graceful yet deliberate. She doesn’t just stand—she makes a point of taking the long way around the table, avoiding me entirely, her back turned like a silent fuck-you. My eyes follow her, unbidden, tracing the lines of her body. The dress clings to her in all the right places, accentuating the curve of her hips, the sway of her ass—a perfect canvas for the kind of punishment my palm itches to deliver. The thought sends a jolt through me, sharp and unexpected, and I grit my teeth against it. She’s a problem, not a temptation. I don’t have time for this.

Yet, when she disappears through the doorway, my gaze lingers, caught on the empty space she left behind. Annoyed with myself, I force my focus back to my family, to the clink of cutlery and the hum of their conversation. But the moment Bella returns, my eyes snap to her like a predator locking onto prey. It’s instinctive, primal, and it pisses me off.

Her creamy skin glows under the chandelier’s soft light, her rich chocolate hair feathered around her face, catching the golden hues of the room. Unlike the sharp, aristocratic features of her mother, Bella’s are delicate—almost fragile. Full lips, a small nose, and eyes that spark with defiance despite the fear lurking beneath. She’s not like the skeletal socialites her age, all sharp angles and hollow cheeks. No, Bella’s curves are lush, healthy, filling out her dress in a way that demands attention. My attention. And I hate how much I notice.

She catches me staring, and those golden-flecked eyes narrow, a silent challenge. Brave but stupid, I remind myself. Our gazes lock, and the embers of my temper flare, stoked by her audacity. In my world, respect is non-negotiable. Fear is currency, and I wield it like a blade. Everyone knows it takes little to ignite my anger—being the head of the mafia demands brutality, unforgiving and absolute. Bella, with her glares and subtle rebellions, is treading dangerous ground.

When she takes her seat, a faint, feminine scent wafts toward me—fresh, like spring blossoms laced with a hint of vanilla. It’s intoxicating, a stark contrast to the blood and smoke that usually fill my world. She smells like beauty, like youth… like something pure, begging to be corrupted. The thought sends a dark thrill through me, one I immediately shove down. She’s a pawn, nothing more. A piece to be moved, married off to the highest bidder as soon as possible. The sooner I’m rid of her, the better.

My phone buzzes, pulling me from the dangerous spiral of my thoughts. I dig it out of my pocket, glancing at the message from Andreas, my right-hand man and the closest thing I have to a brother.

*Looks like the message was received. The streets are quiet.*

A smirk tugs at my lips as I type a quick reply.

*Good news.*

Seconds later, another message vibrates through the device.

*Don’t forget the meeting with the Priesthood. I’ll pick you up in an hour for your flight.*

I slip the phone back into my pocket and take another sip of whiskey, the server darting forward to refill my glass with practiced efficiency. My thoughts shift to the Priesthood—the five heads of the world’s most powerful crime families. Liam Byrne, Irish mafia. Gabriel Demir, Turkish mafia. Luca Cotroni, Italian mafia. Viktor Vetrov, Bratva. We’re bound by one rule: don’t fuck with each other’s businesses or families. Everything else is fair game. Luca and Viktor are tight, an alliance forged in blood and loyalty, and I’ve been smart enough to align myself with them. Crossing either would be suicide.

The Priesthood meets every three months in LA to keep the peace, to ensure our empires don’t collide and plunge the world into chaos. Tonight’s meeting will be no different—strategy, power plays, and the Kim mafia’s recent incursions into my territory. They’ve been a persistent thorn in my side, waves of them crawling into Busan like roaches. I suspect Liam’s tightening grip on Chicago is pushing them my way. I’ll get answers tonight.

A plate of moussaka is set before me, the rich aroma pulling me back to the present. My lips twitch with a rare smile—Dad’s favorite dish. I glance at him, watching as he presses a grateful kiss to Helena’s hand. Athina once tried to make moussaka and nearly burned the kitchen down. Cooking’s not her forte, to put it mildly.

When Dad first told me he was remarrying, I was livid. Mom’s death two years ago left a void no one could fill. She was warmth, grace, perfection—everything Helena will never be. But seeing Dad’s smile, the light in his eyes when he looks at Helena, I’ve grudgingly accepted it. At seventy-two, if he wants a new wife, who am I to stand in his way?

The conversation drifts to wedding plans—bridesmaids’ dresses, guest lists, flowers. I tune it out, my mind circling back to business. Twelve years ago, I took the reins from Dad, expanding our empire with an iron fist. Greece, Cyprus, Canada—they’re mine. Seoul’s been my home for over a decade, shared with Athina, while Dad only left Greece after Mom’s passing. The Kim mafia’s recent moves are the first real challenge I’ve faced, and I’ll crush them like I’ve crushed every other threat.

My gaze drifts to Bella again. She’s as silent as I am, her expression guarded as the table discusses the wedding. When yellow bridesmaid dresses are mentioned, her nose scrunches in distaste, a fleeting but telling reaction. My lips curve slightly.

“You don’t agree?” I murmur, low enough that only she hears.

She startles, her eyes snapping to mine, wide and wary. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” I replied, my voice smooth but edged. “Your face said it all.”

Her frown deepens, but there’s a spark in her eyes—defiance, fear, and something else I can’t place. “You’re an expert at reading faces now?” she challenges, her voice soft but sharp.

“Yes.” It’s not a boast—it’s a fact. Reading people is what keeps me alive, what makes me untouchable.

She rolls her eyes, a reckless move that sends a dangerous thrill through me. My right eyebrow lifts, a warning she doesn’t heed. Leaning closer, I let my voice drop to a whisper, the Greek rolling off my tongue like a blade. “*Pas gyrévontas gia mpeládes.*”

Her gaze flicks to me, irritation flaring in those golden-flecked eyes. “My Greek’s rusty. Care to translate?”

The corner of my mouth lifts higher, a predator’s smile. “You’re looking for trouble.”

She holds my stare for a moment, bold and foolish, before fear tightens her features. “Is this how it’s going to be?” she whispers.

“ Do You threaten me every chance you get?”

My smile widens, all teeth and menace. “Stop disrespecting me, and I’ll stop with the threats.”

She doesn’t understand the fire she’s playing with. I’ve ended men for less than an eye roll. Yet, as she glares at me, something stirs in my chest—a heat that’s not anger, not entirely. It’s unfamiliar, unsettling, like a crack in the iron walls I’ve built around myself. I want to crush it, to crush *her*, but there’s a part of me—a dangerous, reckless part—that wants to pull her closer, to see how far I can push before she breaks. Or before I do.

“Lucky for us, we won’t have to see each other after the wedding,” she says, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “Let’s just ignore each other until then.”

A low chuckle rumbles from my chest, drawing curious glances from my family. Laughter isn’t something I’m known for. Rising to my feet, I tower over her, my presence a shadow she can’t escape. I reach out, patting her head lightly—a patronizing gesture that makes her stiffen. Adjusting my cuffs and jacket, I let my gaze linger on her one last time. “As amusing as this has been, I have a meeting to attend.”

My eyes shift to Dad and Helena. “I’ll let you explain how things will work once you’re married. Clear up any… misunderstandings.”

With a final nod, I stride out of the dining room, my steps deliberate, my mind a storm of conflicting desires. I wish I could stay to see Bella’s face when they drop the bomb—that her life, her future, is no longer her own. That she’s about to become a pawn in my game.

But as I leave, that unfamiliar heat lingers in my chest, a whisper of something I can’t name. And it terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.

---

To be continued ..