Chapter Text
The Sant'Angelo Hotel glittered like it had swallowed every star in the night sky.
Massive crystal chandeliers suspended from vaulted ceilings bathed the ballroom in a warm, honeyed gold.
From the curved marble balcony, a string quartet poured out seamlessly polished Vivaldi, providing an elegant backdrop for the sea of silk, velvet, and tailored wool below.
Politicians, tech CEOs, and ruthless cartels disguised as high-society philanthropists mingled with crystal champagne flutes in hand, their laughter carrying the light, hollow ring of absolute immunity.
Somewhere among the glittering crowd was Matteo Moretti.
One of the largest mafia financiers in Europe, Moretti was built like an iron safe and guarded just as heavily.
Tonight, he was scheduled to hand over a encrypted flash drive containing names, shell accounts, and the coordinates of three black-market warehouses.
James only had to steal it.
Easy.
"...I hate everything," James muttered under his breath, leaning lightly against a mirrored pillar to take the weight off his agonizingly pinched toes.
"What was that?" Juhoon's voice crackled through the microscopic, skin-toned earpiece hidden beneath a wave of spun-gold hair.
"I said I hate everything." James carefully reached back, pretending to check a zipper while secretly easing the restrictive boning of his corset.
He adjusted the dipping neckline of the silk, crimson evening gown—a floor-length death trap designed to cling to every curve.
"I can't breathe. My ribs are rearranging themselves."
"You look incredible," Juhoon replied, the faint sound of keyboard keys clicking in the background.
"The feed from your pin-cam is stunning."
"I know."
"..."
"...That wasn't confidence," James added flatly, adjusting a diamond drop earring that felt like a lead weight.
"It was pure, unadulterated resentment."
Juhoon laughed, short and breathless. "You've got every man within a thirty-foot radius staring. Even the security detail at the west entrance is distracted."
"I know."
"Use it."
"They're disgusting," James hissed softly, keeping his lips barely moving.
He resisted the violent urge to scratch at the scalp beneath the lace-front blonde wig, which had been glued to his head with the precision of a surgical procedure.
The agency’s top makeup artist had performed absolute black magic over three agonizing hours: smoky, feathered eyeliner; heavy gloss that made his lips look full and pouty; dramatic false lashes that clipped his peripheral vision; and a delicate brown beauty mark just above his top lip.
Combined with the shimmering gown, expertly contoured cheekbones, and two very convincing, surprisingly heavy silicone inserts secured within the push-up bra...
No one in the room questioned that the breathtaking, statuesque woman gliding across the polished floor was anything other than a high-class heiress.
James, however, wanted to throw himself through the nearest stained-glass window.
"Friendly reminder," Juhoon chimed in.
"Smile. You're supposed to be a woman who burns through daddy's money, not a contract killer about to snap a neck."
"I am smiling."
"No, you're threatening people with your eyes. You're giving the oil baron to your left the death glare."
"I can't help it. He looked at my chest."
"You can help it. Turn down the murder dial."
James sucked in a shallow breath, tilted his chin, and forced a dazzling, dimpled smile at a passing middle-aged businessman.
The poor man blinked, tripped over his own patent-leather shoes, and nearly slammed forehead-first into a marble pillar.
"...Better," Juhoon grunted.
"A little less lethal next time."
The target finally materialized near a seven-tiered champagne tower.
Black tuxedo, bespoke cut.
Heavy silver cufflinks.
Three broad-shouldered men in matching ear-beads standing two paces back.
Exactly where intelligence predicted he’d be.
James smoothly lifted a crystal flute from a passing waiter’s tray, using the gesture to mask the sharp drop of his hips as he slipped into a fluid, hypnotic gait.
His heels clicked with precise, rhythmic confidence over the polished marble, the heavy silk slit of his dress parting just enough to offer a distraction.
Twenty feet.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Perfect.
Matteo laughed at a joke made by a associate, tossing his head back.
As he reached into his inner suit pocket to adjust his silk pocket square, the subtle outline of the rectangular flash drive gleamed under the chandeliers.
"There it is."
James's heartbeat slowed, shifting automatically into operational focus.
Just another few steps, a simulated trip, a light touch on the forearm, a light-fingered swap—
Someone stepped directly into his path, cutting off his trajectory entirely.
"Excuse me."
James caught himself before he plowed chest-first into a wall of solid charcoal wool.
He looked up, his rehearsed excuse perching on the tip of his tongue—and immediately wished he hadn't.
The man standing in front of him was absurdly tall, with broad, commanding shoulders that filled out a custom-tailored Italian suit.
He had thick, blonde hair brushed back from a face carved with sharp angles, stubble along a square jawline, and dark, heavy-lidded eyes carrying the kind of effortless, arrogant confidence that belonged exclusively to very wealthy, very dangerous men.
The stranger smiled, a slow, predatory curving of his lips.
"Oh."
His voice was a rich, low baritone that vibrated right through the noise of the orchestra.
"I don't think I've seen you before."
James offered the politest, coldest fake smile imaginable, praying the man would take the hint and evaporate.
"I'm sure you haven't."
"So you're new."
"No."
"No?" The man tilted his head, his dark eyes sparkling with immediate amusement.
"I've simply never met you."
"Ouch." The stranger placed a large, calloused hand dramatically over his heart, squeezing his eyes shut in mock agony.
"You wound me. Deeply."
James tried stepping to the right to bypass him. The stranger seamlessly took a step to his left, cutting him off again.
James blinked, the long false eyelashes heavy on his lids.
"...Really?"
"I was hoping for your name first," the man said smoothly, resting a hand casually in his pocket and resting his weight on one leg.
"I wasn't hoping for yours."
The stranger grinned wider, revealing sharp, perfectly white teeth.
"I like difficult women."
James stared at him, counting to three in his head. "...Good for you."
He lunged left.
Again, the stranger matched his movement with infuriating agility, blocking the lane to Matteo
"Can I buy you another drink?" the man offered, gesturing to the barely touched glass in James's hand.
"I already have one."
"Then I'll buy the next one."
"No."
"Dessert? The pastry chef here makes a incredible chocolate tart."
"No."
"A dance?"
"No."
"Coffee tomorrow morning?"
"No."
The stranger tilted his head, studying James's annoyed expression like he’d just found a fascinating new puzzle.
"So that's not a no forever."
James looked heavenward, squeezing the stem of his champagne flute so hard the glass groaned.
"Juhoon."
"I know," Juhoon whispered through the earpiece, his voice shaking with suppressed laughter. "I'm muted on my end because I'm literally crying."
"I hate him."
"I know."
"I genuinely, intensely hate him."
"I can hear the murderous intent in your breathing, James. Calm down."
Across the sprawling ballroom, Matteo Moretti turned on his heel and began walking toward the private rear exit.
James's eyes widened. "No, no, no..."
He attempted to push past his pursuer, quickening his pace to a fast-track glide.
Unfortunately—
"So where are you from?" the stranger asked cheerfully, matching James step for step with an annoying, long-legged stride.
"You don't have the local accent."
"Earth."
"I figured. That narrows it down to seven continents."
James inhaled sharply through his nose.
Patience.
Professionalism.
Prison was preferable to committing a murder in the middle of a gala.
"I have somewhere to be," James snapped, his voice dropping an octave into a hushed raspy tone before he quickly corrected it to a breathy alto.
"I'll walk you."
"I'd rather you didn't."
"I insist."
"I don't."
The man let out a rich, genuine laugh that drew glances from a nearby elderly couple.
"You have the cutest attitude."
James almost snapped his heel off in a floor grate.
He stopped dead, turning to face his tormentor full-on. "I do not have a cute attitude."
"You absolutely do. It's like watching a very tiny, very soft kitten try to roar."
"I am being flatly, deliberately rude to you."
"I noticed."
"And yet you're still standing in front of me."
The man’s eyes flickered with a dark, dangerous spark of amusement.
"I've always had a soft spot for challenges."
James used a sudden lull in the crowd of ballgowns to slip neatly around the man's broad frame.
There.
Matteo was only fifteen feet away now, heading toward the soundproofed corridor that led to the VIP lounges.
Just another ten seconds and—
James suddenly froze. His shoulders went rigid.
"...Juhoon."
"What? Did you lose him?"
"My boobs are slipping."
There was complete, utter silence on the radio line.
Then—
Juhoon burst into violent, uncontrollable laughter that sounded like a wheezing teapot.
"I am completely serious!" James hissed under his breath, stepping behind a heavy velvet curtain to break line of sight.
"I know, I know—"
"I can literally feel the left one migrating south toward my rib cage. The sweat melted the medical adhesive!"
"I'm trying to help you, man—"
"You are doing nothing!" James growled, wildly tapping his fingers against his hip.
"I'm trying not to pass out from lack of oxygen!"
James subtly reached up, pretending to adjust the elaborate gold chain of his necklace while desperately using his elbow to pin the rogue silicone insert back into place against his corset.
"Oh, this is humiliating. This is the single most humiliating night of my career."
"You were the one who insisted on field work over desk duty," Juhoon reminded him, snickering.
"I wanted rooftops! I wanted night-vision goggles and suppressed pistols!"
"You got cleavage, James. Deal with it."
James took a stabilizing breath, forced his left arm into a permanent, artfully posed position to hold the insert steady, and peeked around the curtain.
Matteo Moretti was entering the darkened side hallway leading to the private suites.
Perfect.
He hurried after him, ignoring the burning ache in his calves as he pushed his speed to the absolute limit of what six-inch stilettos allowed.
Finally.
No crowds.
No velvet ropes.
No interruptions.
He rounded the corner at full speed—
—and slammed chest-first into a solid wall of charcoal wool.
"Oh!"
A pair of massive, surprisingly warm hands reached out, catching James firmly by his bare waist to steady him before he could pitch backward onto the marble.
The grip was tight, authoritative, and impossibly strong.
James froze, staring up into the stranger's glowing hazel eyes.
The man smiled down at him, completely unbothered, his thumbs lightly resting against the silk over James's ribcage.
"There you are. I was looking for you."
James closed his eyes for a long, agonizing second. "...Why?"
"You disappeared."
"I was trying to!"
"I noticed. You're very slippery."
James took one slow breath.
Another.
One more, counting down from ten in his head so he wouldn't use his sharp fingernails to gouge the man's throat out.
Then, he looked up and smiled—a sweet, radiant, utterly terrifying expression.
"Would you kindly..."
"Yes?" The man leaned in slightly, his dark eyes sparkling.
"...leave me the hell alone?"
The stranger threw his head back and laughed again, the sound echoing down the quiet corridor.
"I really don't think I can."
James stared, his composure cracking entirely.
"What is actually wrong with you?"
"I'm fascinated."
"Why?"
"You don't flirt back," the man said, taking half a step closer, his eyes dropping to James's glossed lips before rising back up.
"Every other woman in that room spends half her evening trying to get my attention, or my money, or my name."
James folded his arms tightly across his chest—partly out of defense, mostly to keep his left breast from falling into his stomach.
"I don't care who you are. I don't care if you own the hotel."
Something flickered across the stranger's face.
The light, arrogant teasing vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by real, razor-sharp interest.
"...That's refreshing," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, velvet hum.
Behind the man’s broad shoulder, a heavy chime echoed down the hall.
The brass elevator doors at the end of the corridor slid shut.
Through the small glass window, James caught a final glimpse of Matteo Moretti's bald head as the elevator began its descent to the underground parking garage.
The indicator light shifted: G1... G2.
James's heart plummeted straight into his stomach.
Mission ruined.
Flash drive lost.
He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping under the heavy silk of the gown.
"...Juhoon."
"I saw through the feed," Juhoon said, his mocking tone completely gone, replaced by quiet sympathy.
"I lost him on the garage cameras. He had a decoy car waiting."
"I lost him."
"I know."
"It's his fault," James whispered viciously, glaring up at the tall man still standing entirely too close to him.
Juhoon cleared his throat, trying to suppress another cough of laughter.
"I am going to file a report saying you were compromised by an unexpected obstacle."
"I am going to arrest this man for existing," James corrected darkly.
The stranger tilted his head, watching the rapid shift of emotions across James's striking face.
"You look disappointed."
"You have no idea."
"Did something happen?"
"You happened."
The man blinked, taken aback for the very first time. "...That felt personal."
"It was extremely personal."
He stared for a second, then broke into another wide, boyish grin that made him infuriatingly attractive.
"I really, really like you."
James looked at him with genuine, unfiltered horror.
"Please don't."
The swell of the orchestra drifted down the hallway as the waltz ended, replaced by polite applause from the main room.
Guests were returning to their drinks, completely unaware that a major intelligence operation had just been derailed in the hallway.
James knew it was over.
Moretti was in a bulletproof sedan by now, heading toward a private airfield.
The months of planning, the forged invitations, the excruciating three-hour session in the makeup chair... all trashed.
He let out a long, exhausted sigh, stepping backward out of the man's reach.
"Time to leave."
Outside the hotel's grand entrance, a line of sleek black town cars idling in the chilly evening air emitted faint plumes of white exhaust.
James descended the broad marble staircase with agonizing slowness, his toes numb and his left heel wobbling dangerously with every step.
"Wait!"
James paused on the third step from the bottom, suppressing the urge to scream, and turned around.
"What?"
The stranger hurried down the steps toward him, his dark coat open, flapping slightly in the cool night breeze. "When will I see you again?"
"You won't."
"I'd like to."
"I wouldn't."
"You don't mean that," the man said, stopping two steps above James, bringing them to eye level. Up close, his dark eyes were relentless.
"I mean it with every fiber of my being."
He smiled with infuriating, unshakable confidence. "I'll find you."
James almost let out a hysterical laugh. "You don't even know my name."
"I'll figure it out."
"You don't know where I live."
"I'll figure that out too."
James rolled his eyes so hard he nearly pulled a muscle, turning toward the black sedan that Juhoon had hailed to the curb.
"Good luck."
He pulled open the car door, awkwardly swung his long legs—and his towering stilettos—inside, and slammed the door shut without looking back.
As the car pulled away into the slick, rain-washed city streets, James fell back against the leather seat, ripped off his clip-on earrings with a wince of pain, and muttered into his earpiece, "If I ever see that man again..."
Juhoon’s voice chuckled softly over the speaker. "You'll what? Shoot him?"
"No," James growled, yanking off the blonde wig to reveal his short, tangled brown hair beneath.
"I'm charging him for emotional damages and a ruined pair of red-bottom heels."
...
Martin stood at the top of the grand hotel steps long after the red taillights of the sedan merged into the midnight traffic.
The crisp night air did little to cool the sudden, electric energy thrumming through his veins.
Behind him, a heavy-set man in a dark trench coat approached cautiously, stepping into the dim light of the lantern.
"Boss?" the man asked, eyeing the empty street.
"Moretti's car just cleared the perimeter. We're ready to clear out."
Martin didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he watched the empty avenue with an amused, dangerous smile that slowly broadened into something far more consumed.
"I've met thousands of women, Enzo" Martin said softly, his voice cutting through the distant sound of city traffic.
The old man waited in polite silence.
"None of them have ever looked at me like they wanted to throw me into oncoming traffic."
Enzo shifted uncomfortably. "...Should I be concerned?"
"I'm utterly fascinated." Martin slipped both hands deep into his trousers pockets, his gaze fixed on the spot where the car had vanished.
"I don't know her name."
"No, sir."
"I don't know where she came from."
"No, sir."
"I don't even know if a single word she said to me tonight was true."
Enzo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I know that look."
Martin’s grin widened into something sharp and relentless.
"I have to find her."
"Boss... we have three shipments arriving at the docks tomorrow morning—"
"I mean it," Martin interrupted quietly, the playful banter from the ballroom completely gone, replaced by absolute, unyielding intent.
The oldan groaned under his breath. "...You don't even know where to start searching."
Martin turned his head, his hazel eyes catching the golden glare of the hotel lanterns.
"Then I'll search everywhere."
...
Somewhere across the city, the furious covert operative currently peeling off his false lashes had no idea that a disastrously ruined mission had just set off the dangerous obsession of the most powerful man in the underworld.
Neither of them knew it yet.
But the ballroom had only been the opening move.