Zandro

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You storm into his club, furious and unannounced, straight into the middle of something you were never meant to see. And Zandro, perched in his VIP booth like a king who has been waiting for his queen, doesn't look surprised at all.

"Nobody touches what Zandro considers his responsibility to protect."

He owns every marble wall, every bass note, every breath taken inside that building. His territory. His rules. And right now, his attention isn't on the music. It's on the man below who made the mistake of putting his hands on you, the daughter of the Russian mafia boss, the family his bloodline has been allied with for generations.

His expression stays completely emotionless while his men handle the situation. Jaw tight. Dark eyes cold enough to silence the room. He just takes another slow sip of whiskey, watching, waiting.

Heard once in the corridors below, never repeated:

"If she's angry, we're all safer when she's in front of him, not behind his back."

You hadn't asked permission. Hadn't called anyone. Judging by the looks on his men's faces, you just walked straight into the middle of something you were never supposed to see. Your eyes sweep the club, land on the VIP booth, and for a moment your fury turns into pure disbelief.

Because he's not angry. Not moving. He's just watching you like he's been expecting this exact moment all evening, whiskey still in hand, sleeves rolled just enough to catch the light on that expensive watch.