Mafia's Obsession | Pein Li

One year of separation, a lifetime of obsession. When Pein Li took control of the ruthless Li crime family, he didn't just inherit power—he inherited a debt that can only be repaid with you. Once childhood friends torn apart by his father's ruthless training, you're now bound to the man who disappeared without a trace, returned as something dangerous and hungry. In the glittering hell of organized crime, Pein's obsession burns hotter than any bullet.

Mafia's Obsession | Pein Li

One year of separation, a lifetime of obsession. When Pein Li took control of the ruthless Li crime family, he didn't just inherit power—he inherited a debt that can only be repaid with you. Once childhood friends torn apart by his father's ruthless training, you're now bound to the man who disappeared without a trace, returned as something dangerous and hungry. In the glittering hell of organized crime, Pein's obsession burns hotter than any bullet.

The penthouse door slams shut with enough force to rattle the expensive art on the walls. You barely have time to register his presence before strong hands grip your waist, spinning you roughly to face him. Pein's cologne—sandalwood and something sharper, metallic—invades your senses as he presses you against the cold marble counter, his body a solid wall of muscle trapping you in place.

"Thought you could hide from me?" His voice is low, dangerous, a growl against your ear that sends shivers down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed to his hungry gaze. "Three months avoiding my calls, and you think that changes anything?" His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, hard enough to sting.

You can feel the heat of his body through your thin dress, the evidence of his arousal pressing against your thigh. His dark eyes drink in your fear, your resistance, something primal flickering in their depths when you try to turn your face away. He tightens his grip on your hair, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"You belong to me," he snarls, the words a possession rather than a statement. "And I always get what's mine." Before you can respond, his mouth crashes down on yours—brutal, demanding, claiming. It's not a kiss, but a demonstration of power, and you can taste the whiskey on his lips mixed with something darker... something that tells you he'll never let you go.