The Stranger With a Gun

Diana stumbled away from the bar, tipsy and hot, pushing through the sweaty, grinding bodies on the dancefloor. The club pulsed with lights and bass that shook her chest. She wasn’t thinking straight. Her legs were shaky, and her brain screamed one thing over and over again:

I want him. I want him.

Her eyes locked on a tall guy standing near the lounge—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, slicked-back dark hair. He looked like trouble in the best way. She didn’t know his name, but he gave off that dangerous vibe. And she was drunk enough to chase it.

As she moved through the crowd, some guys reached out to grab her. One even slapped her ass. She turned and smacked his hand away hard. Another whistled, “Feisty little thing.” She didn’t care. She kept moving.

She reached the back of the club, heart racing.

That’s when she saw him—the guy she wanted—walking away.

“No—wait,” she mumbled, stumbling forward.

But instead of disappearing into the crowd, he walked straight to a VIP booth, leaned down, and whispered something to a man sitting in the shadows.

That man lifted his head slowly.

Their eyes met.

It wasn’t the guy she’d been chasing. It was the man he answered to.

And he was staring at her like he already knew what she tasted like.

The man was lounging in a velvet seat like a king in his palace, watching everything like it bored him. Until her.

She didn’t even see the guy she followed—now standing beside the booth—until she was already stumbling closer.

She pointed right at him, unbothered. “Hey, what’s your name?” she asked boldly.

The man glanced at his boss and then looked back at her, amused. “Raffaele.”

“Raffaele,” she repeated, tasting it like a word she’d pretend to remember in the morning.

Then her eyes slid to the man in the seat. The one watching her with that unreadable smirk.

“You look better than Raffaele,” she said honestly, her voice slurring just slightly. “What’s your name?”

He studied her for a moment, clearly amused by her lack of filter. Then he said, “You tell me yours first.”

“Diana,” she replied without hesitation. “Now your turn.”

“Vincenzo.”

She didn’t even get to react properly because the next second, she tripped—hard—and fell straight into Vincenzo’s lap.

“Shit, sorry—” she said, her hands pressing against his solid chest as she tried to find her balance.

His hand caught her wrist gently but firmly. “Easy, sweetheart.”

She looked up, completely breathless.

He was... beautiful in the most dangerous way. Thick dark brows. Piercing eyes. Lips made to lie and ruin.

She laughed softly. “Your eyes are pretty.”

“You’re drunk,” he said, smirking.

“Yeah,” she admitted, then reached out and touched his shirt. “But I still want to have sex with you.”

Vincenzo tilted his head slightly, like he was studying a new toy.

"You were about to go after my bodyguard, huh?" he said. His fingers suddenly cupped her breast, slow and confident. “And yet, you look more like a virgin than a pervert.”

That sobered her up a bit.

“I—what?”

Before she could say anything else, she blurted, “I want to have sex with you. I’m all yours tonight.”

Vincenzo raised a brow, then smiled. “If that’s what you want.”

He stood up, lifted her into his arms effortlessly, and carried her through a side door. Her arms looped around his neck as her heart pounded so hard she could barely breathe.

He kicked open a private room.

Inside, he pressed her against the wall and kissed her—hot, commanding, full of hunger. She melted into it. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t care who she was supposed to be.

She was just a girl kissing a stranger.

But then—

BANG!

The door burst open.

Vincenzo barely had time to react.

A gun went off.

He turned, shielding her.

“Vincenzo!” she screamed as the bullet hit his arm.

He didn’t cry out. He didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he pulled out a gun and shot the two men who stormed in before they could fire again. They dropped instantly. Blood splattered the wall.

Diana froze, eyes wide, body shaking. She wanted to scream, but the sound got stuck in her throat.

The door swung open again. Two more men rushed in.

“Boss! Are you okay?” one of them asked.

That’s when she saw him again—Raffaele.

She tried to run. She didn’t even know where she was going—she just wanted to get out.

But Vincenzo grabbed her wrist. “Not so fast, angel.”

Then he turned to Raffaele. “Bind her. She’s coming with us.”

“What?! No!” she shouted, struggling as Raffaele tied her wrists, slung her over his shoulder like a sack, and walked back out into the club.

She kicked and yelled. “Put me down! Are you crazy?!”

Nobody cared.

People danced. Music played. Two dead bodies on the floor, and nobody even blinked.

They threw her into a black car.

Vincenzo climbed in, holding his bleeding arm like it was nothing. “Drive,” he told the driver.

The car took off. Five other cars followed.

She sat there, bound and terrified, heart pounding like a drum. Was this how she was going to die? Killed by a man she just kissed?

They pulled into a long driveway lined with trees. A huge mansion appeared at the end. Elegant. Cold. Dangerous.

Raffaele unbound her and opened the door.

Before she could run, Vincenzo picked her up with one arm like she weighed nothing and threw her over his shoulder again.

“Let me go, you bastard!”

He didn’t listen.

He carried her into the house, up the stairs, into a large bedroom. He dropped her on the bed and took off his shirt, revealing his muscular chest and the bloodied bandage on his arm.

His eyes narrowed. “Now show me the same little act you were putting on at the club.”

She should’ve screamed. She should’ve run.

But she didn’t.

Something in his voice… the way he looked at her, with heat and dominance—it pulled her in.

Still drunk and trembling, she stood up like a fool… and kissed him.