No one defied Massimiliano De Luca and lived to tell about it. Tonight, someone was about to try.

Nocturne sat sixty floors above Manhattan where its glass walls offer a panoramic view of a city that never truly slept and neither did the men who frequented this exclusive rooftop bar. Men who owned the darkness, who traded in secrets and blood, who made decisions that never saw the light of day.

The space dripped with understated wealth; polished mahogany bar, Italian leather seats, and ambient lighting that cast everyone in the most flattering shadows. The soft sound of jazz, low and smoky, mingled with hushed conversations and the occasional clink of crystal glasses.

This was Massimiliano De Luca's domain. His sanctuary.

From his usual corner booth, Massimiliano De Luca let his gaze drift across the room, his dark eyes lingering a half-second too long on anyone who caught his interest. At 6 '0", he dominated any space he occupied, his athletic frame wrapped in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit that whispered of old money and new power.

A scar traced his jawline, where he'd gotten sliced in a territorial cartel fight years ago. While the black king chess piece tattooed on his muscular forearm remained hidden beneath Italian silk.

Inside the Nocturne, The Baldwin brothers were finalizing a shipment deal with the Russians. Senator Caldwell was drinking more than usual. He's always getting into trouble; trouble at home or trouble in office, either way, leverage for later, he thought. Everything was as it should be.

That is until he noticed her.

She'd slipped behind the bar with grace and confidence, unlike the attitude that new staff typically carried who would trip over themselves trying to impress everyone. Especially in an unconventional establishment like this where legitimate and illegitimate business mingle together and nervousness is expected.

Massimiliano found his attention lingering on her. Standing at 5'4", she was an understated beauty, with dark hair flowing down her back. Her skin was tan as if kissed by the Mediterranean sun and her body curved at all the right places. The kind of woman who made a man like him, who'd seen everything twice, look twice.

But it wasn't only her beauty that caught his eye. It was her presence.

Women in his world typically broadcasted their intentions like neon signs. Their eyes obvious with either hunger, fear, desperation or ambition, or most of the time a mix of those.

But this woman showed nothing. No fidgeting her hair when he looked her way. No lingering eye contact. Not even a friendly over-enthusiastic smile.

Her poker face was immaculate and it unsettled him.

As one of the most powerful men in New York, he's not used to not knowing. He had eyes and ears in every corner of this city. But this bartender somehow managed to become a question mark in his mind. And in his business, unknowns usually meant trouble.

He slid his empty glass forward, his eyes still transfixed on her.

Without looking up, she reached for the top-shelf whiskey, his whiskey, and poured two fingers. Two ice cubes, no more. She slid it back to him, her dark eyes finally meeting his.

"Neat, with two ice cubes," she said with a smooth voice. "You like your burn controlled."

Massimiliano raised a single eyebrow, a small movement that had made grown men sweat. "You learned that from a file on me?"

The corner of her mouth quirked up, not quite a smile. "You're not special. Every rich asshole drinks the same thing."

The audacity of this woman. If anyone else had spoken to him that way, they'd be picking up their teeth from the floor. Instead, he found himself intrigued. Most women either flirted shamelessly or avoided eye contact altogether but she did neither.

He let out a chuckle, tilting his glass. "And yet, you reached for my bottle without a second thought." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "I don't remember hiring you."

"That's because you didn't. Your manager Franco did." She turned away, shifting her attention to another patron.

Massimiliano watched her move through the next hour with dark fascination. He observed her keenly, noting the way she kept unwanted advances at arms' length without causing scenes and the way she commanded respect without demanding it. For a fleeting moment, he recognized himself in the way she carried herself.

He returned to the bar once again as curiosity got the better of him.

He slid his empty glass forward. "Another," he said, his eyes never leaving her face.

She poured without comment, sliding the glass back.

"You have a name?"

"Tatiana."

"Unusual name for someone who looks Italian." He questioned.

"On my father's side." She said dismissively.

He leaned forward slightly. "When do you finish tonight, Tatiana?"

"When the bar closes." She met his gaze, unflinching.

"And after?"

"I go home. Alone." Her emphasis on the last word was pointed.

Massimiliano smiled, slow and predatory. "A beautiful woman like you shouldn't spend her nights alone in a city like this."

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"A beautiful woman like me knows exactly how to take care of herself." She turned to another customer, dismissing him without a second glance.

Massimiliano felt a flash of irritation. Disrespectful.

He returned to his booth, gesturing for Antonio to approach.

"Find out everything about the new bartender. Tatiana. I want to know who she is, where she comes from, who she knows."

Antonio nodded, stepping away to make the call. An hour later, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

"Boss." Antonio slid into the booth across from him, his voice tight with concern. "Something's off with the new bartender."

"Tell me."

"Tatiana Hayes. Started two days ago. Background checks out, but..."

"But?"

Antonio shifted uncomfortably. "It's too clean. Five years bartending at high-end establishments. Before that, some college. No social media presence to speak of. No red flags, but no distinguishing markers either."

Massimiliano's eyes tracked her as she leaned across the bar, laughing at something an older patron said. "That's because it's fabricated."

"Want us to handle it?"

"Not yet."

He watched as a man, one of the Gambino crew's newer members, drunk and stupid, grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer. Before security could intervene, she had twisted free with a fluid motion. There was no panic, no hesitation that came from her.

"Hands off the merchandise, sweetheart," she said with a light calm voice. "Next time, you lose your fingers."

The man sputtered. "Do you know who I..."

"Someone who's about to get cut off?" She smiled sweetly. "Your call."

The man glanced toward Massimiliano's corner. When realized he was being watched, he backed down immediately.

Interesting, Massimiliano thought. Tatiana Hayes. She hadn't looked for backup. Hadn't shown fear. And handled it like someone accustomed to threats far worse than handsy drunks.

Who are you, Tatiana?

Across the bar, Tatiana leaned in close to a man Massimiliano didn't recognize. Mid-fifties, unremarkable suit and a forgettable face. A ghost. She angled her body to block sightlines, and exchanged words too quiet to hear. Her posture remained casual, but there was intent in every movement.

Another player. In his game.

Massimiliano took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the burn match the irritation of unknown variables in his carefully controlled domain.

Their eyes met across the crowded room but she didn't look away. She didn't flinch, nor did she smile. Instead, she raised an almost challenging eyebrow to him. Making it clear that she was unbothered by his scrutiny. Unimpressed by his power.

The night stretched into early morning, the digital clock behind the bar silently ticking past 3 AM. Manhattan's glow softened through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city entering that rare liminal space between night and dawn. Inside the Nocturne, it was business as usual during closing time. Deals were sealed, hands were shaken, promises and threats faded into the background hum of the city below. The crowd thinned until only the die-hards remained, nursing their drinks and their secrets.

Tatiana wiped down the bar, polishing the cool marble as she scooped up empty glasses that hadn't even been abandoned yet. She moved like someone who knew that she was being watched but couldn't be bothered to care.

Massimiliano approached the bar one last time, sliding onto a stool as the final patrons filtered out.

"You don't belong here," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

She glanced up, amusement dancing in those hazel eyes. "And where do I belong, Mr. De Luca?"

"In my bed." His words weren't a request. They were a statement of fact, of inevitability.

She laughed, the sound genuine and cutting all at once. "Go kick rocks."

Anger flashed behind his eyes. No one spoke to him that way. No one dared. He got off his seat and grabbed her wrist in one smooth motion, his grip firm but not painful. It's a warning.

"This is my domain, bella. I always get what I want." His voice dropped lower, a dangerous purr. "Playing hard to get is a dangerous game with me."

She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume, and it was intoxicating. Her eyes gleamed with amusement.

"Is that supposed to scare me?" The laughter never left her eyes as she delicately peeled his fingers from her wrist, one by one. "You'll have to try harder than that."

Without waiting for his reply she stepped back, reaching for her purse beneath the bar. "I'll see you tomorrow night, Mr. De Luca."

He stood there, seething in anger. Fucking disrespectful. She should be terrified, should be begging for forgiveness yet here she is. Defiant. Unyielding.

But as he turned to leave, he had to admit: she might be a problem worth having.

The elevator doors closed behind him with a soft chime. Antonio and Marco flanked him in perfect silence, knowing better than to speak first when that particular look darkened their boss's face.

"I want her," Massimiliano said finally, adjusting his cufflinks. "Make it happen."

"Yes, boss," Antonio responded, already mentally calculating the resources needed.

"We'll dig deeper into her background. Find pressure points."

"Yes, boss." The response was immediate, unquestioning.

––––––––––

Alone in the empty bar, Tatiana allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she watched Massimiliano disappear into the elevator.

So predictable. So controlled. So goddamn arrogant.

She ran her fingertips over the bar top where he'd been sitting, imagining for a fleeting moment what it would feel like to slide a knife between his ribs. The fantasy was pleasant but premature.

Massimiliano De Luca was exactly as she'd expected. Exactly as she'd studied him to be. The entitled son of a former mafia boss who believed the world existed for his taking. Just like his father.

Men like him, who always got what they wanted, rarely appreciated anything handed to them. If she wanted him to want her, she'd have to make him earn it.

She gathered her things, switching off lights as she went. Her plan was already falling into place. Get close. Gain trust. Destroy from within.

The De Luca empire would fall, brick by blood-soaked brick. And when Massimiliano realized who she really was? When he understood that Tatiana Hayes was just a mask, that Tatiana Moretti had returned to claim what was stolen?

That would be sweeter than any revenge she could imagine.