At 22, She Gave Herself to Her Dad’s Billionaire Friend… Not Knowing He Was a Mafia Boss.

Part 1:

How do you fall for the most dangerous man in Monaco? Without even knowing his name, Selene Davenport was about to find out. Because in 3 seconds, she’d collide with him in a way that would leave them both breathless. In 3 days, she’d be questioning everything her father taught her.

And in 3 weeks, she’d have no idea the man she’d just met would become both her salvation and her cage. But none of that mattered right now. right now. She was just a girl trying not to trip in her heels. The diplomatic residence lobby gleamed like old money, marble floors, crystal chandeliers. Selene navigated the corridor with the focused precision of someone who’d rather die than make a scene.

She’d been in Monaco 12 hours, 6 months at London Gallery stretched ahead, then Paris. That was the plan until she saw him. Seline saw him the moment he entered the diplomatic residence lobby. Impossible not to. The man walked like he owned every room he entered. Flanked by two security guards who moved with military precision.

Dark suit, darker eyes, the kind of presence that made conversation stop midsentence. She froze halfway across the marble floor, her pulse kicking hard against her ribs, storm blue eyes locked onto hers, her breath caught. She couldn’t look away. Seline’s artist brain cataloged details she didn’t want to notice.

Mediterranean features, sharp jaw, a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. But his eyes stopped her completely. Storm blew, the kind that warned of dangerous weather. He was looking directly at her. Fire licked through her veins, heat spreading across her skin. The questions hammered through her mind. Who is he? Why is he looking at me like that? Time slowed.

The distance between them compressed into something electric, something that made her stomach clench, and her hands tremble around the folder she’d been carrying. 20 ft, 15, 10. His gaze held hers, unwavering as he moved closer with deliberate predatory grace. Seline’s heart hammered so loud she was certain he could hear it, panic clawing through her thoughts. I should move.

I should look away. Then the world exploded. A deafening crash shattered the silence. Metal screaming against marble. Glass shattering. Something massive hitting the floor with enough force to shake the chandeliers overhead. The sound was so loud it momentarily deafened her, making her ears ring.

Selen’s body jerked toward the noise, her mouth opening in shock. And then she was falling. No, not falling. being taken down. Hard arms wrapped around her waist, yanking her sideways with brutal efficiency. Her back hit the marble floor, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. A solid wall of muscle pressed down on top of her, pinning her completely, one hand cradling the back of her head to keep it from cracking against the floor.

Seline’s hands came up instinctively, pressing against a chest that felt like warm stone beneath expensive fabric. Her fingers found the open collar of his shirt, bare skin, heat, the hammering of his heart against her palm. Her breath stopped, her entire body going rigid as the realization crashed over her.

“He’s on top of me. I can feel him,” she thought. “Oh god, I can feel everything. The man covering her body was him, the one with the storm blue eyes.” He was so close she could see silver flexcks in his irises, feel his exhale ghost across her lips, smell cedar and salt and something darker that made heat pull low in her stomach.

His weight pressed her into marble, his hand cradling her skull with surprising gentleness, while his chest moved against hers with each harsh breath. Selene’s pulse thundered. She pressed her lips together, panic clawing through her thoughts. His heart is racing as fast as mine. I can feel the heat of his skin through my blouse.

Stop thinking about how he feels, how he smells. Stop. One of the guards shouted from somewhere behind them. Clear, sir. The man above her didn’t move immediately. His gaze locked onto hers, something electric passing between them. Then he pushed himself up with controlled strength, his hand still cradling her head.

Selene stared up at him, chest heaving. Her fingers were still spled against the warm skin visible through his open collar. The most attractive man I’ve ever seen. Just threw himself on top of me. And I don’t want him to move. What’s wrong with me? The thought slammed into her before she could stop it. Panic and heat tangling in her chest.

The man straightened to his full height, storm blue eyes scanning the room before returning to her face. Are you hurt? Seline’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He extended his hand. Let me help you up. She took it, warm, calloused, strong, and he pulled her to her feet with effortless strength. He steadied her with a hand at her elbow.

I apologize, miss. We thought he glanced toward the source of the noise, jaw tightening. We thought it might be a gunshot. Seline’s eyes widened. A gunshot? She followed his gaze, and her heart plummeted. her piano. Her mother’s baby grand piano lay on its side in the entrance hall. Polished mahogany cracked like broken skin. Strings exposed and tangled.

Her chest constricted painfully. No, not the piano. Not mom’s piano. The thought tore through her before she could stop it. The mover stood frozen nearby, faces pale. One rushed forward, ringing his hands. I’m so sorry, miss. The dolly wheel caught on the carpet edge. It’s fine. Selene’s voice barely held steady.

Accidents happen. But her voice cracked on the last word, betraying her. The man went very still. When she glanced up, he was watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle, like he could see straight through her composure to the grief underneath. His hand was still on her elbow. Forgive me, he said quietly.

I reacted to what I thought was a threat. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Seline shook her head. You didn’t frighten me. You protected me. Thank you. Something flickered in his eyes. He released her elbow slowly, fingers trailing away. He offered his hand formally. Alessandro Moreti. I had business meeting with your father this morning.

The name hit her like a physical blow. Alessandro Moretti. That’s Alessandro Moretti. The one my father mentioned. The one who makes him choose his words carefully. Recognition slammed through her cold and sharp. She forced herself to take his hand. Selene Davenport, Ambassador Davenport’s daughter. Recognition flashed across Aleandro’s face, but not surprise.

His thumb brushed once across her knuckles before he released her hand. He knew. He knew who I was before I said anything. The realization left her breathless. Aleandro’s mouth curved slightly. Welcome to Monaco, Miss Davenport. He turned to one of his guards speaking rapid Italian. The guard nodded and pulled out his phone.

Aleandro looked back at her, expression unreadable. Again, my apologies for the dramatic introduction. I hope the rest of your day is less eventful. He inclined his head and walked away, security detail falling into step beside him. Seline stood in the middle of the lobby, heart racing, hands trembling, the ghost of his touch burning on her skin. Stop it.

He thought there was a gunshot. He was protecting me. It didn’t mean anything, she thought, pressing her palm against her chest, trying to force the words to feel true. But even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie. And that was how it began. Seline didn’t know it yet. But she just caught the attention of the most dangerous man in Monaco.

And Alisandro Moretti didn’t let go of things that interested him ever. The next morning, Selene woke to her phone buzzing insistently. A message from the resident security desk. Delivery for Miss Davenport. Requires signature. She threw on a robe and made her way downstairs, half asleep, expecting documents. What she found in the lobby made her breath stop. A piano.

Not just any piano. A Steinway grand black lacquer gleaming like liquid midnight tied with a wide white silk ribbon. Perfect, pristine, breathtaking. Seline’s hand flew to her mouth. “This can’t be real,” she thought, shock rooting her in place. A small card rested on the keys, heavy cream paper with a weight that spoke of money and taste.

Black ink, elegant script not printed, but written by hand in confident strokes for the one that was lost, with sincere apologies for yesterday’s disruption. and below a signature in that same bold hand. Aleandro Moretti. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the card. He sent me a piano. A Steinway. Why would he? The question spiraled before she could stop them.

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