The Mafia King's Obsession.

APRIL

The first time I spot the devil is about thirty seconds before an ice-cold beer hits me in the face.

He's sitting in a booth at the far end of Goody's Bar when it happens. He's not drinking, not talking, just watching me. His eyes are dark, sharp, and heavy with danger, the kind that sends a chill down your spine even when you're trying to pretend you don't notice.

His hair is neatly cut, black as midnight. His suit matches it-tailored, expensive, and so dark it almost swallows the light around him. If fire suddenly started licking at his sleeves, it wouldn't surprise me. He looks like someone flames belong to.

I'm behind the bar, pretending to be busy pouring drinks, but I can feel his stare burning through me. He's got the stillness of a predator, waiting for the right moment to strike. I know I should be terrified, but instead, my pulse is picking up.

His features are carved like stone: a jawline that could split logs, tanned skin, faint lines around his eyes that only make him more intense. Everything about him screams control. Power. Trouble. Italian, maybe. Early forties. Definitely out of my league.

He's too composed, too dangerous-looking for someone like me, a twenty-something bartender barely making rent. Still, I can't help it. Something about him pulls me in like gravity.

I try not to stare back. I focus on the drunks yelling for refills, the smell of beer, the sticky floor, but all I can think about is him. I can feel those eyes on me, steady and consuming. His hands rest flat on the table beside a black cellphone, big enough to crush it in one squeeze. He looks like a man who doesn't have to move to make people afraid.

No one gets close to him. Even in this crowded place, it's like he's surrounded by an invisible wall. People glance his way, then instantly look elsewhere. It's strange, unnerving, but also magnetic.

My first thought is: what's a man dressed like that doing in a dive bar like Goody's?

My second thought, unfortunately-is that my ovaries might've just exploded.

I'm so distracted by him that I don't notice the argument happening right in front of me. Usually, I can sense when trouble's brewing, but tonight, my instincts are off. And that's when it happens.

A shout, a swing, and then a splash.

Ice-cold beer explodes across my face. It drips down my hair, into my shirt, soaking me completely.

It's the usual story-another disastrous first date. The woman's furious, the guy's smug, and she's thrown her drink. He blocks it, and guess who's standing right behind him? Yep-me.

Icy. Imported. Not my kind of shower.

The crowd bursts into laughter. My Goody's Bar tee is plastered to my chest, and I can feel every pair of eyes on me.

"Out!" Joe, my boss, yells. For a split second, I think he's defending me. No such luck.

"This isn't a