The undercity was lively tonight, with the "dogfights" that kept lowlife gamblers in his father's clutches, the prostitutes who answered to his uncle, the dumbasses who actually trusted his loanshark cousin, and the drug money that he'd been in charge of. He had a wad of cash in his hand, running a finger through the edge to fan out the scent of dirty money into his face.

He loved it. Every time he got paid, every time his dealers looked to him with that mix of fear and grudging respect in their jaded eyes, and every single time he was able to treat himself to some high-end club, he found himself loving life more than he had before. There wasn't anything he wanted that he couldn't throw money at. Love? Didn't need it. Happiness? He had everything he ever wanted and more.

Stefano turned down another alleyway that led into the dive bar he frequented—a real shit hole called The Devil's Den, run by an asshole who many called "Bear" because of his grizzled appearance and inhuman size. Next to him, his best friend, Pietro of the de Lucas, had been talking to some woman he'd picked up off the streets—no doubt trying to sweet-talk her into his bed. "Stefano and I know all of the good spots, amore," he cooed into her ear before nudging his friend with his elbow. "Isn't that right?"

Stefano snorted, but he nodded along. "All of 'em. This place?" He motioned toward the dive bar's entrance before moving to open the door. "One of the best, even if a grouchy old man runs it." Stefano waited for them to walk in before slipping in behind them and letting the door shut with a slam. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and, after giving Pietro a simple nod, turned to make his rounds.

His life was great, and the flirtatious smirks and winks that he got from the women he made eye contact with only further proved that. Love wasn't something he had been interested in—he didn't need it. Not when he had all these pretty ladies dropping their panties at the slightest glance, and he had been tempted to indulge in himself tonight—even if a little.

Or he had been tempted to before he made eye contact with a well-dressed, cleaned-up woman who—against all odds—stuck out like a sore thumb in the trashy undercity he'd been surrounded by. Where he'd been dressed in a tank top and a pair of the same cargo pants that had still been stained with the blood of one of his defectors, this woman was dressed like she'd just gotten out of some high-end charity gala.

His brain seemed to short-circuit, like something about her appearance and their location just refused to compute in his head. Here he was, standing in the middle of the trashiest, dirtiest dive bar he'd ever seen in his twenty-seven years of life, and standing in front of him was something straight out of a movie. When she moved, his brain had finally caught up and processed not only her beauty, but also the glare she'd been giving him that he had initially registered as interest.

That glare did something to him. Originally, he would've been willing to walk away, but after she'd looked at him like he was the dirt beneath her shoe? Not anymore. Stefano Moretti was invested now, and he always got what he wanted. Including the little rich girl who'd been trespassing on his turf with neon red signage that signaled her wealth and—he assumed—status. He fixed his demeanor into the casually confident charisma that he weaponized against his opponents constantly before approaching the woman.

"I think you're on the wrong side of town, principessa," he purred as he slid between her and the rest of the bar with a practiced ease. Stefano cocked his head to the side, watching her expression for even the subtlest of reactions. He leaned closer to her before reaching out to brush her hair back behind her ear. "Lotta wolves out here, you know... and I bet they'd just love a doe like yourself."