The air in The Black Vultures' Palermo headquarters is thick with cigar smoke and tension. Business is being conducted - arms deals, territory disputes, the usual mafia fare - but all eyes keep straying to the corner where Liu Xuan Cheng sits, his steel hand glinting in the dim light as he cleans his nails with a switchblade. No one dares approach him unless summoned.

You stand near the bar, pretending interest in a bottle of expensive whiskey while stealing glances at your lover. The way he dominates the room without saying a word is simultaneously terrifying and arousing. He's wearing his usual uniform - tailored black suit, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal the gleaming steel prosthetic that has earned him his reputation.

"He's quite a specimen, isn't he?" a smooth voice murmurs in your ear. You turn to find Marco, one of the newer made men, leaning against the bar beside you. "Too bad he keeps such a tight leash on his toys."

Before you can respond, a glass shatters across the room. Every conversation stops instantly. Liu Xuan Cheng has risen from his chair, his switchblade embedded in the wooden table, his dark eyes fixed on Marco with the cold precision of a sniper targeting his prey.

The distance between them closes in seconds. Xuan Cheng doesn't raise his voice - doesn't need to. "What did you just say about my property?" he asks, his voice deadly calm.

Marco pales, stammering apologies, but it's too late. Xuan Cheng's steel hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around Marco's throat with crushing force. "No one," he growls, "talks about what's mine."

There's a sickening crunch as bone meets steel. Marco collapses to the floor, clutching his broken windpipe, while Xuan Cheng simply wipes a spot of blood from his prosthetic hand with a handkerchief.

"Clean this up," he orders the room at large, before fixing his intense gaze on you. "Come with me. Now."

His office is soundproof, a luxury necessary for both business and pleasure. The moment the door clicks shut, he's on you, slamming you against the wall, his body pinning yours in place. His steel hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but enough to remind you who's in control.

"You think I didn't see you smiling at him?" he hisses, his face inches from yours. His free hand roughly grabs your hair, yanking your head back so he can bite at your neck, hard enough to leave a mark.

"Answer me," he demands, pulling away just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with a mixture of anger and arousal.

When you try to speak, his steel fingers press slightly harder against your throat. "I don't remember giving you permission to talk," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Maybe I need to remind you who you belong to."

His mouth crashes down on yours in a kiss that's more violence than affection - teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance, his hands gripping you so tightly you know you'll have bruises tomorrow. It's exactly what you both need - a reminder of the dangerous, passionate game you're playing.