The mafia and his hit man

Avery’s POV:

Every gaze in the club felt like heat on my skin, some lingering too long, some trying too hard but one was different. One was heavier. Hotter. Hungrier. I didn’t need to look to know it was him. Rafa.

The man who has lived rent-free in my mind since the first night I laid eyes on him. He sat in a private booth on the upper level, shadows curling around his silhouette like he belonged to the night. Back straight, shoulders wide, that dangerous glint in his eyes directed at me like he already owned me. God, I felt it like his stare alone was dragging fingers across my spine.

It was stupid. I knew that. Stupid to want someone like him. Stupid to crave someone so dangerous, so powerful, so untouchable. I wasn’t just playing with fire I was dipping my fingers into lava and daring it to kiss me.

I hadn’t planned to see him tonight. Hell, I hadn’t even expected it. I came to the club because I needed noise, lights, bodies. A distraction. Work had been bloody, messy, and I wanted to forget for a while. But then I saw him. Rafa. Like fate had decided to play dirty.

The first time I saw him was months ago, at a party. A work night for me, just another contract, another throat to slit and vanish before the champagne went flat. I didn’t expect to lock eyes with a mafia heir dressed in black silk and sin, his gaze catching mine across a room full of killers and crooked kings. I’d slipped out unseen, job finished, but my mind had stayed behind hooked on him. Rafa.

And now he was here again. No plan. No chase. Just him.

So I dressed like I meant trouble. Black crop top, short shorts that rode dangerously high, showing off the glint of my belly piercing and the lotus tattoo at my hipbone. My boots reached my thighs, sleek and black, heels clicking against the floor in rhythm with the bass. Neon lights caught the mirrored stud on my lower back, sparking like a dare. A little makeup, just enough to highlight the parts of me I liked best. And I danced.

Slow. Sensual. Filthy. Like I didn’t care who watched. Like I wanted them all to look.

But the only gaze that mattered was his.

And God, Rafa was looking. Drinking. Me. In. His jaw tight. His fingers curled loosely around a glass. Legs spread like a king expecting to be served. And that mouth smirking faintly like he already knew how the night would end.

I hoped he’d send for me soon, because my body was buzzing. My skin prickled with awareness. My thighs clenched. His stare was doing unspeakable things to me from across the room. I wasn’t sure how much more teasing I could take. I wanted him to get up. Walk down. Grab me by the waist and—

A hand touched me.

Not his.

Rough fingers gripped my side like I was something to claim. I stiffened. Turned sharply. The man behind me smiled, drunk and entitled.

I slapped his hand away.

He laughed and grabbed me again.

I was ready to punch him. One hard hook to the jaw and I’d be free.

But before I could raise my fist, the man was gone.

Down.

On the floor.

Rafa was on top of him.

Fists flew. One, two, three strikes brutal, fast, unrelenting. The man screamed as Rafa smashed his face in, blood slicking his knuckles like crimson paint. His eyes, those gorgeous, dark eyes were murderous. He didn’t blink. Didn’t pause. Didn’t care that the whole club was watching.

I rushed over and grabbed his arm. “Rafa,” I said, breathless.

He didn’t flinch, but he stopped. Like the sound of my voice cut through the red haze.

“He clearly wasn’t interested,” Rafa said, rising slowly from the man’s body. “Next time someone doesn’t show interest, leave him the fuck alone.”

I melted.

Right there. In my boots. On the spot. Melted.

He turned to me next, his eyes softer but still intense. “Are you alright?”

My mouth went dry. “I’m fine,” I managed, even though I was anything but. My heart was racing. My thighs ached. I was flushed all over.

Rafa didn’t wait for further answers. He reached out, slid his hand into mine firm, warm, possessive and began leading me toward the exit with the whole club still watching the drama unfold. Some were scared and backed away when they noticed it was Rafa.

He didn’t speak to me again until we were outside. He only barked orders to his men as we passed. “Take care of him,” he said without looking back. And I knew without needing clarity that “take care” didn’t mean ice or an ambulance.

Once we reached his sleek, black Escalade, he opened the door for me. Gentleman. Killer. Problem.

“Want me to take you home?” he asked, voice low, silky.

I bit my lip.

Held his stare.

Tilted my head just enough to show him I wasn’t shy.

“No,” I said sweetly. “Take me to your place. Or a hotel. Somewhere I can thank you properly.”

He blinked. Smirked. Then smirked harder. Like the predator he was.

“Oh really?”

His eyes raked over me, slow and hot, and I swear I felt them like touch, like heat, like sin. When his gaze dropped to the bulge in my shorts, the smirk deepened into something darker, something primal. I didn’t try to hide it. Couldn’t. I was already hard, already aching, already leaking into my panties like some desperate thing, I wonder if he would like them.

He didn’t say another word. Just led me to the car.

And I went.

Gladly.

Because I’d fantasized about this from the moment I met him.