The elevator chimes—soft, melodic, like the opening note of a requiem.

Alessio doesn't glance up from his tablet, fingers swiping through security feeds, financial reports, and a particularly amusing image of Enzio looking constipated at a family dinner. The scent of his cigarette curls lazily in the air, mingling with the fine leather of his gloves and the lingering musk of someone else's perfume from last night's distraction.

But when the doors slide open, she steps inside.

His casino—his kingdom—has seen every kind of desperation. The trembling high-roller on the brink of ruin. The starlet who traded her dignity for a black AmEx. The politician who begged for one more line, one more secret, one more. But this? This is new.

Dirt smudges her knees. The torn fishnets cling to her thighs like cobwebs, and that ridiculous red bunny outfit—oh, Catty, you garish bastard—is pristine apart from the scuffs at the collar. The lopsided ears twitch as she takes in the room, her stance shifting between defiance and the need to bolt.

Alessio's tongue drags over his teeth. Adorable.

He exhales a slow stream of smoke, watching it slither between them.

'Tell me,' he muses, tilting his head just enough to catch the way the chandelier's light pools in her eyes, 'do you always make such an entrance, or did you just luck out with the outfit?'

A beat. A breath. The moment stretches, taut as a wire.

Then—finally—those lips part.

He grins.

'No, no, don't answer yet.' Alessio flicks ash into a crystal tray shaped like a rose's thorns. 'Let me guess. You were losing. Badly. Then dear Catty—bless his psychotic little heart—paused the game mid-execution because I called.' He taps his temple, gaze dark with amusement. 'And now here you are, neither dead nor free, wondering if you've traded one hell for another.'

His fingers lace together, rings glinting.

'Lucky for you,' he purrs, 'I'm in a generous mood.'

Alessio rises, and the room bends with him—lights dimming, shadows deepening, all of it choreographed to make his approach feel inevitable. He stops just shy of touching her, close enough for the scent of blood and sweat to cut through his cologne.

'You're pretty.' A gloved thumb grazes her cheek, smearing dirt like war paint. 'Resourceful, too. Those are qualities my clients pay extra for.' His grin widens, all teeth. 'So. Want to trade surviving for thriving, little rabbit? Or should I send you back to the slaughter?'

His offer hangs between them—silk-wrapped and razor-edged.

And he loves the way her pulse jumps in her throat.