The Mafia King's Obsession.

APRIL I slip behind the bar, back into the familiar rhythm of work. For the next hour, it's non-stop - orders flying, glasses clinking, the crowd's noise growing thicker by the minute. As kickoff time nears, the line starts to shrink. Most people settle into their seats, their eyes glued to the massive screen on the back wall. Finally, I catch a breath. Jammie squeezes my shoulder and grins at me. "You doing all right, little kitten?" "Fine and dandy, momma cat," I reply, forcing a smile. She raises an eyebrow. "You wondering what happened to the jerk who decided to baptize you with beer?" "I'm guessing nothing. Joe never kicks out a paying customer." Jammie laughs and shakes her head. "Well, guess what? The tall drink of danger who's been giving you those dark, smoldering eyes all night came over, picked that guy up like a bag of sand, and tossed him into the street. Didn't say a single word." I blink at her. "You're kidding." "Nope. Saw the whole thing. His date tried to flirt with him, but he just ignored her, walked straight out, and hasn't come back." "What did Joe do?" "That's the weird part," she says. "He looked terrified. Didn't lift a finger. Just stood there watching." Jammie sighs dreamily. "Shame that gorgeous man didn't come back. I was hoping to climb him and ride into next week." I laugh, shaking my head. "Aren't you spoken for?" She shrugs. "Mama needs more than one hound dog to play with." That's Jammie for you - relationships to her are just games. She's juggling enough lovers for a football team, and I can't imagine keeping up with that kind of drama. That life's not for me. She leans on the counter, still talking. "He was staring at you the whole time he was in here. Guess he's more into the bookish type than the... well, me type." She laughs, lifting her chest. "You should've gotten his number when you had the chance." "Yeah, right," I mutter. But my heart's already racing again, pounding like I'm sprinting through traffic. "What's the problem?" Jammie asks, handing a drink to someone before turning back. "You can't stay single forever." "I can try," I say, half-smiling. "Look on the bright side," she teases. "At least he got a full view of what your momma gave you." "Don't remind me." She grins. "Don't worry, you've got a better rack than mine." She glances over my shoulder - then her face lights up. "Well, look who it is." I turn, and my breath catches. He's here. Diablo Romano. He doesn't just walk in - he owns the space the moment he steps through the door. Shoulders back, head high, the kind of confidence that makes everyone move out of his way like he's a storm rolling through. The crowd parts without him saying a word. "Here's your chance," Jammie whispers. "Ask for his number." "You serve him," I hiss back. "I can't do it." But when I glance at her, she's already gone - vanished down the hatch to the basement. My throat turns dry. My hands tremble. I can't move. He's still coming closer, that same steady stride, eyes locked on me. Cold, dark, unreadable. When he reaches the bar, he places both hands on the counter, and the air between us shifts. I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a nervous cough. He's even more striking up close - tall enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his gaze. His presence is magnetic, commanding. "Sorry," I manage, my voice barely a whisper. "What can I get you?" "Scotch. Double." His voice is deep, gravelly, with a faint Italian edge. The sound rumbles through me, low and dangerous, like distant thunder. "Ice?" I ask. He just stares at me, silent. "Okay then," I mutter under my breath as I turn to pour the drink. "No ice, got it." I try to calm myself, breathing in slow, but my stomach is twisting. When I turn back, his eyes are still on me - piercing, burning right through me. "Here you go, quiet guy," I say, sliding the glass toward him. He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a sleek black wallet with a gold-embossed D.R. "Thanks, by the way," I blurt out before I can stop myself. "For tossing that guy earlier. I appreciate it." "He disrespected you. I despise disrespect." He pulls out a hundred-dollar bill and holds it out. "Keep the change." "I can't. That's too much." I try to hand it back, but he closes my hand around the bill, his skin brushing mine. The contact sends an electric spark through me. My knees weaken, my chest tightens, and something deep inside me ignites. "I insist," he says, then lifts the glass and drains it in one smooth motion. "What's your name?" "April," I whisper. "Last name?" "Morgan." His gaze drops to the buttons on my shirt - a small Italian flag. He rolls up his cuff, revealing a tattoo of the same flag on his wrist. "Looks like mine," I say with a nervous smile. "You ever been there?" I shake my head. "Not yet. Can't exactly afford it on a bartender's pay. But I've always dreamed of going. Wandering through Rome at sunset, eating pizza and gelato. Maybe even living there one day." I laugh awkwardly. "Why am I even telling you this? Like you care, right?" He looks at me, really looks - like he can see past the words, past the nerves. "When you want something badly enough," he says softly, "nothing can stop you." I can't speak. I just smile, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. "Parli Italiano?" he asks. The way he says it feels like a caress. "Un po," I answer, holding up two fingers an inch apart. "I'm taking classes." "Bowling classes too?" I frown, then notice his eyes flicking to the bowling pin button next to the flag. "Just a fan," I explain. "I knock down a few pins when I can." "I used to bowl," he says, almost to himself. There's a shadow in his voice - gone as quickly as it came. "Long time ago." Then he looks back at me. "Take care, April Morgan." "And you, uh... what's your name?" He starts to walk away, stops, hesitates - like he's fighting an inner war. Then he turns sharply and strides back. He leans in across the bar, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath. My pulse is wild. He smells like musk, sandalwood, and something darker - danger and allure wrapped together. "You'll get to Rome one day," he murmurs. I can barely breathe. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my skin. "Take tomorrow night off," he whispers. "Don't come in. Got it?" "What? Why?" Before I can blink, the whistle for halftime blows, and the bar explodes into noise. I look up - and he's gone. Vanished. I stand there frozen, feeling like something vital has just been ripped away. Jammie reappears, yelling over the noise. "Did you get his number? Tell me you did!" "Nope," I say quietly. "You can't stay the quiet kitten forever, April! You've got to be a big momma cat like me - go on the prowl, take no prisoners!" But I barely hear her. Because when I glance over the crowd, my breath catches. He's there. Back in his booth. Watching me. Not moving, not smiling - just staring. And in that moment, I realize something. No matter how much Jammie tells me to be the predator, I'm not. Not tonight. Because with the way Diablo Romano is looking at me right now, I don't feel like a huntress. I feel like prey - trembling in the dark waters, while he circles with quiet, deadly patience. I turn away, the weight of his gaze burning into my back. My chest tightens, and I can't breathe. "Where are you going?" Jammie calls as I rush past her. "Bathroom. Be right back!" "You kidding?" she shouts. "We're slammed!" "Two seconds, I promise!" I yell, already pushing through the crowd. But inside, I know the truth. I'm not running from the crowd. I'm running from him - and from the way his eyes make me feel like I'll never be the same again.