THE DON'S BEAUTIFUL RUIN

I sat across from Captain Marco Santini with a calm expression on my face, my fingers wrapped lightly around the stem of a wine glass as if I had nothing in the world to worry about.

The red dress I was wearing clung to my body perfectly, expensive and carefully chosen, a gift from Viktor that I never asked for but always wore when he told me to.

He liked me looking a certain way, polished, desirable, unforgettable, and I had learned long ago not to question his reasons even when I knew there was always something darker beneath them.

Marco leaned back in his seat like he owned the world, his voice loud enough to compete with the music vibrating through the walls of the club as he talked endlessly about power, money, and influence.

He told me Inferno belonged to him, that everything I saw around me existed because of him, and I nodded at the right moments, letting my lips curve into a small, interested smile as if I believed every word he said.

I knew he was lying.

Inferno did not belong to him, and men like Marco were always eager to inflate their importance when they thought a woman was impressed by them.

I let him talk anyway because it made things easier. It always did.

“You’re quiet,” he said, leaning forward slightly as his eyes dragged over me in a way that would have made most women uncomfortable. “Most women ask questions when they hear what I do.”

“I prefer to listen,” I replied softly, taking a slow sip of my wine. “It’s more interesting that way.”

He grinned, clearly pleased with my answer, and I could see the moment he decided I was exactly the kind of woman he wanted for the night. That was how it always worked.

Men like him did not notice danger when it was sitting right in front of them. They only saw what they wanted to see. “And what do you think of me so far?” he asked.

I tilted my head slightly, letting my gaze linger on him just long enough to make it believable. “I think you’re impressive,” I said.

It was a lie, but he did not hear it. He laughed, satisfied, and raised his glass in a careless toast before finishing the rest of his drink.

I watched him for a moment, memorising the rhythm of his movements, the slight delay in his reactions, the way his guard had completely dropped.

He was relaxed, comfortable, and most importantly, alone. Perfect. “Let’s get out of here,” he said suddenly, standing up and offering me his hand. “Somewhere more private.”

I let my fingers slip into his without hesitation and allowed him to lead me through the club.

The music grew louder as we passed through the crowd, bodies moving around us in a blur of light and shadows, and then it faded the moment we stepped into the VIP hallway.

The silence there was different, controlled, and expensive.

He pushed open the door to one of the private rooms and pulled me inside, closing it behind us with a soft click that sounded final in a way he did not understand.

Marco turned to me immediately, his hands finding my waist as he backed me against the wall. I let him, my body relaxing under his touch as if I welcomed it, even though my mind was already moving ahead, calculating every second.

“You’re even more beautiful up close,” he murmured, his breath warm against my skin.

I gave him a faint smile, one that he mistook for interest.

His hands began to wander, growing bolder as he leaned in, and I let my head tilt slightly to the side as if I was giving him access, as if I was surrendering to the moment he thought he was creating.

Then I moved.

The blade slid into my hand smoothly, hidden until the exact moment I needed it, and before he could react, I drove it upward under his jaw with precise force.

The steel cut through soft tissue and into his brain in one clean motion, my grip steady, my expression unchanged. His body jerked once. Then it went still.

Marco Santini died without making a sound.

I pulled the blade out just as quickly and stepped away, letting his body collapse to the floor. There was no hesitation, no second glance, no emotion attached to what I had just done.

I wiped the blade clean on his shirt before slipping it back into place and adjusted my dress as if nothing had happened. Then I walked out.

The club swallowed me the moment I stepped back into it, the music loud again, the lights flashing, the crowd moving without awareness of what had just happened behind a closed door.

I moved through them with steady steps, my face calm, my breathing even, already anticipating the chaos that would follow when Marco was found.

Everything was going exactly as planned.

Until it wasn’t.

I slowed slightly as I reached the center of the club, a strange feeling settling over me, sharp and unexpected, like instinct trying to warn me of something I had not yet seen. My gaze lifted, scanning the room, and then it stopped.

On him. Luca Moretti. I knew who he was the moment I saw him, even without introduction.

Power like his was not something you mistook. He sat in one of the private sections overlooking the floor, surrounded by men who carried themselves like they would kill without hesitation, yet none of them drew my attention the way he did.

He was already looking at me.

His eyes were locked onto mine with an intensity that made something inside me tighten, and for a second, everything else faded into the background. The music, the lights, the people, none of it mattered.

The way he was staring at me was wrong. It was not out of suspicion. It was not anger. It was something else entirely. He looked at me like he had seen a ghost.

My breath caught slightly, and for the first time that night, something close to unease crept in. I did not understand that look, and not understanding something was dangerous.

I needed to move.

I broke eye contact and turned, forcing my body to keep going, to blend back into the crowd and disappear the way I always did. That was the plan. It had always been the plan.

Then I felt it. Eyes on my back. Not just one set.

More. “Stop.”

The voice came from behind me, firm and commanding, cutting through the noise like it did not belong there.

I did not stop. I turned instead.

Three men were pushing through the crowd, their focus locked directly on me, their movements purposeful, controlled, and far too coordinated to be coincidence.

They knew. They had found Marco.

And now they were coming for me.