The Mafia Kidnapped Me: One Night Stand With Mr Billionaire

“Put that down. Dance with me.”

Elara froze mid-step.

The voice came from behind her — low, controlled, the kind of voice that cut straight through the layers of ballroom chatter and champagne glass clinks. It didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It simply commanded.

Her fingers tightened around the tray she was carrying. Her heart gave a startled kick as she slowly turned.

And then she saw him.

Adrian Valcourt.

Up close, he didn’t look like the photos plastered across business magazines and city billboards. He looked sharper, colder, impossibly more real — tall and tailored in a black tuxedo that seemed made for him and only him. His presence didn’t just draw attention. It suffocated it. He was the kind of man people pretended not to stare at while staring anyway.

Elara’s breath stalled. “Sir… I’m working.”

“You won’t be for the next three minutes.”

Before she could argue, he removed the tray from her hands with a smooth, unhurried gesture and passed it to another server without lowering his eyes. The server nearly stumbled trying to take it, clearly terrified by the proximity.

Elara wasn’t sure what terrified her more — the boldness of him, or the fact that the room around them had gone unnervingly still.

“I can’t just leave my shift,” she whispered.

“You can. You’re already doing it.”

He extended his hand.

Not politely.

Not softly.

But with quiet, absolute expectation.

The orchestra, as if sensing the universe had shifted, changed tempo into a slow, sweeping waltz. Guests parted without needing instruction. Eyes followed. A senator’s wife gasped. A young woman in a silver gown glared at Elara with venom.

Elara felt the heat of every stare. She should walk away. She should run. She should blend back into the hum of the event where people like her were invisible.

But her hand rose toward his almost against her will, like something magnetic pulled her toward him.

His fingers closed around hers.

Warm. Certain. Too sure.

Adrian guided her onto the center of the polished marble floor. The dancers who had been there moments ago stepped aside in a clean circle, as if this moment belonged only to the two of them.

His hand slid to her waist.

Her pulse jumped so hard she felt it in her throat.

“You’re tense,” Adrian murmured.

“You just interrupted my job,” she breathed.

“I improved your evening. There’s a difference.”

Her lips parted in shock. Who said things like that? Who meant them?

His steps were smooth, precise, impossible to fight. She followed because there was nowhere else for her body to go. His presence crowded out logic, out oxygen, out everything except the uncomfortable awareness of him.

“You could have chosen anyone here,” Elara whispered.

“I didn’t want anyone here.”

Her breath caught. “But why me?”

His gaze shifted — something sharp, something unreadable, something that made her chest tighten.

“That,” he said softly, “is not a conversation for this room.”

His voice held a weight she couldn’t decipher but felt in her bones.

Around them, whispers thickened. Someone snapped a photo. A businessman muttered something about impropriety. The event planner who’d hired her stared from the edge of the crowd, face pale with panic.

Elara forced herself not to look away.

His hand tightened slightly at her waist, guiding her through a turn that made her hair brush his shoulder.

“You’re doing well,” he said.

“I’ve never danced a waltz in front of two hundred people.”

“You’ve never danced one with me.”

Her pulse skidded.

She hated that it affected her. She hated more that she didn’t understand why it did.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, voice barely above a breath.

Adrian’s jaw shifted. “I want you to stop looking around as if someone else deserves this moment.”

Her face warmed instantly.

“You don’t even know my name,” she said.

“I do.”

Her stomach dipped. “How?”

He didn’t answer.

The waltz reached its crescendo, the final notes sweeping the room like a held breath. Adrian slowed their steps, but he didn’t let go. For a moment, it felt like the music itself was waiting for him to decide it was over.

Only when the last note faded into silence did he release her hand.

But only for a heartbeat.

He took her hand again — this time not to guide a dance, but to slip something into her palm.

A small ivory card.

Elara looked down at it in confusion.

Before she could speak, Adrian leaned in, his breath brushing the side of her face.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Ten. Valcourt Foundation.”

Elara’s pulse faltered. “Why?”

His eyes held hers, dark and deliberate.

“Come alone.”

That was not an answer.

It was a warning.

Or an invitation.

Or both.

“Sir—”

“Don’t be late.”

He pulled back, expression unreadable, and walked away through the crowd as if the earth itself cleared a path for him.

Elara stood frozen in the center of the dance floor with the card burning against her palm. People whispered around her — who was she, why her, what did he want — but the words blurred into a distant hum.

She stared at the card.

No logo.

No message.

Only his name embossed in gold foil:

Adrian Valcourt

Her throat tightened.

Why her?

Why dance?

Why tomorrow?

Why alone?

The questions tangled together until she couldn’t breathe around them.

She slipped the card into her pocket and backed off the dance floor with trembling steps, feeling every stare licking at her like heat.

Her shift resumed around her, but she moved as if underwater, carrying trays, smiling mechanically, replaying his voice again and again.

Come alone.

Ten.

Valcourt Foundation.

That night, she lay in her small, dim apartment staring at the ceiling, unable to blink away the heaviness in her chest.

Adrian Valcourt.

The man who danced with no one.

The heir who avoided gossip.

The billionaire who vanished from events early.

And tonight he

had chosen her.

Not just to dance.

But to summon.

As the hours dragged, one question refused to loosen its grip:

Why did Adrian Valcourt want to see her tomorrow?