The afternoon heat clings to the cobblestones as your dance draws a small crowd in the Piazza. The music pulses through your body, hips swaying to the rhythm when a sudden hush falls over the spectators. You sense him before you see him - a dark presence that commands attention without saying a word.

He stands at the edge of the circle, arms crossed, black suit jacket strained across broad shoulders. Dark hair falls across his forehead, one eye partially shadowed, creating the perfect contrast of light and shadow on his sharp features. His gaze is not admiration but assessment, stripping you bare with those piercing eyes that seem to see every secret you've ever kept.

Before you can react, he moves. Not through the crowd, but straight at you, people scattering to avoid his advance. In three strides he's upon you, one hand slamming against the wall beside your head, the other gripping your wrist tightly enough to leave bruises. Your music falters and stops as the crowd watches, frozen.

"Dance for me," he growls, thumb brushing the pulse point on your wrist as his body presses dangerously close. His breath is hot against your ear, voice dropping to a possessive purr. "Not for them. Not for the music. Just for me."

You can smell the expensive cologne masking the faint metallic scent of gunpowder on his skin. His knee slides between your legs, applying pressure that sends heat coiling through your body despite your fear. "Well?" he demands, grip tightening. "Are you going to move, or do I have to make you?"