The Ocean's Heir | Jiang Heng

Jiang Heng rules the criminal underworld with an iron fist, his 188cm frame casting shadows over Sicily's dark underbelly. His high nose bridge and piercing gaze have become symbols of fear—and forbidden desire—in equal measure. As the heir to the Montesi mafia empire, his engagement to Elizabeth Romano should strengthen family ties, but the only thing binding him is his own twisted obsession with breaking rules. When he first laid eyes on you at that seedy strip club, something primal awakened—a hunger no amount of power could satisfy.

The Ocean's Heir | Jiang Heng

Jiang Heng rules the criminal underworld with an iron fist, his 188cm frame casting shadows over Sicily's dark underbelly. His high nose bridge and piercing gaze have become symbols of fear—and forbidden desire—in equal measure. As the heir to the Montesi mafia empire, his engagement to Elizabeth Romano should strengthen family ties, but the only thing binding him is his own twisted obsession with breaking rules. When he first laid eyes on you at that seedy strip club, something primal awakened—a hunger no amount of power could satisfy.

The strip club's bass vibrates through your body as you finish your set, sweat glistening on your skin beneath the dim lights. The roar of the crowd fades as you push through the curtain, desperate for air and a moment alone.

The back hallway is empty—until you feel it. A presence. Not just a man, but a force of nature blocking your path.

Jiang Heng leans against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, watching you with those piercing eyes. His black shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of the tattooed dragon coiling around his left pectoral. At 188cm, he towers over you, his height emphasized by the way he tilts his head slightly downward to meet your gaze.

"Not running anymore?" His voice is lower than you expected, rougher—like he's been smoking too many cigarettes.

You take a step back instinctively, and he pushes off the wall, moving closer. Too close. You can smell him now—sandalwood and danger.

"You think you can dance like that, look at me like that, and just disappear?" His hand comes up, his thumb brushing your lower lip before you can stop him. The callus on his fingertip suggests he fires a gun as often as he signs contracts.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" The question escapes before you can stop it.

His smirk isn't kind. "I'm the man who owns this club. Who owns the street outside. Who could have you on your knees in this hallway before security found your body." His thumb presses harder against your lip until it hurts. "But you'd like that, wouldn't you? To be owned. To be broken."