The Dangerous Lover or The Mafia's Boyfriend

‎The dimly lit restaurant smelled of expensive wine, cigar smoke, and something darker-power. The kind of power that settled in the room like a storm waiting to break.

‎Elijah Sinclair sat at the head of the table, swirling his whiskey lazily in his glass. He wasn't easily impressed, and the men sitting across from him weren't worth his time. The deal was supposed to be simple-Sinclair Enterprises was looking to expand, and he wanted control over a few key properties. The problem? Some unknown party had already swooped in and bought them before he could.

‎He hated losing.

‎Which was why he was here now, in a meeting arranged by a mysterious "businessman" who refused to name himself.

‎Elijah checked his watch, irritated. He didn't like waiting. "If this mystery investor doesn't show up in the next five minutes, I'm walking."

‎The man sitting closest to him-a short, nervous-looking guy in a cheap suit-cleared his throat. "Mr. Sinclair, I assure you, he's on his way. He's just... unpredictable."

‎Unpredictable. Elijah hated that word.

‎Just as he was about to call for the check, the doors at the back of the restaurant swung open. The air changed immediately. The hushed conversations at surrounding tables ceased, and the tension in the room grew thick.

‎Elijah lifted his gaze and found himself staring at a man who didn't belong in a place like this. No, he looked like he belonged in a warzone-or on the cover of a crime documentary.

‎Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black from head to toe, his tailored coat barely hiding the sharp lines of a well-built body. Blond hair slicked back, sharp jawline accentuated by the dim lighting, and piercing brown eyes that held no warmth.

‎The stranger walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps, the kind of confidence that came from knowing he could kill everyone in the room if he wanted to.

‎Elijah arched a brow, unimpressed. "I assume you're the reason I wasted my evening."

‎The man slid into the chair across from him, silent for a moment. Then, he smirked-a dangerous, knowing expression that sent an unexplainable shiver down Elijah's spine.

‎"You must be Elijah Sinclair," the man drawled, voice deep and smooth, laced with amusement.

‎"And you must be the jackass wasting my time."

‎The men around them tensed, as if Elijah had just signed his own death warrant. But the blond only chuckled, shaking his head.

‎"You've got a mouth on you, Sinclair. I like that."

‎"Good for you. Now, who the hell are you?"

‎The smirk widened. The blond leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

‎"Dante Moretti," he said casually, as if his name wasn't enough to make grown men tremble.

‎Elijah didn't flinch. He didn't react the way most people did when faced with the heir to the Moretti crime syndicate. Instead, he took another sip of whiskey, unimpressed.

‎"Oh," he said flatly. "Mafia."

‎The air around the table grew colder. The nervous man in the cheap suit