I Kissed a Stranger for $50—He Turned Out to Be the City's Deadliest Mafia Boss

The Starlight Gala was held at the Grand Atrium, a sprawling, historic venue constructed entirely of white marble and glass overlooking the dark waters of the harbor. As the black town car pulled up to the velvet ropes, the flash of paparazzi cameras exploded like a strobe light sequence in a nightclub.

"Smile," Rowan murmured against her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "But not too much. You're bored by them."

Mave nodded, channeling every ounce of Genevieve’s haughty training. When Elias opened the door, Rowan stepped out first, immediately commanding the attention of the entire street. The frantic shouting of the press died down into a tense, awed murmur. Rowan reached back, offering Mave his hand.

She took it, stepping out of the car and into the blinding crossfire of camera flashes. The emerald dress caught the light, and a collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

Rowan Mercer, the ghost of the criminal underworld, the man who never attended public events and was never seen with women, had just arrived with a goddess on his arm.

Rowan didn't pause for photos. He pulled Mave close, his hand resting firmly on the bare skin of her lower back. His touch was an iron brand, steering her effortlessly through the crowd and into the opulent ballroom.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive champagne, rare orchids, and predatory ambition. The room was packed with the city’s elite: corrupt politicians, hedge fund billionaires, and high-society socialites. But the moment Rowan and Mave stepped through the gilded doors, the string quartet seemed to fade. Conversations stopped mid-sentence.

Hundreds of eyes turned toward them, assessing, calculating, and judging.

"Keep walking," Rowan ordered quietly, guiding her down the grand staircase. "Don't break eye contact if someone stares at you. Make them look away first."

Mave lifted her chin, locking her gaze on a prominent senator who was openly gawking at her. She channeled her inner fury—the anger of being dragged into this mess, the exhaustion of the bakery, the terror of the hitman—and stared back with a glacial, unyielding glare. The senator quickly coughed and looked down at his drink.

"Good girl," Rowan praised softly, a hint of dark amusement in his voice.

They navigated the ballroom like royalty. People parted like the Red Sea to let them through. Rowan introduced her to a blur of important, terrified people, referring to her simply as "My Mave." He never let go of her. His hand remained a constant, possessive weight on her back, his thumb occasionally tracing small, distracting circles on her bare skin.

An hour into the event, Mave was actually beginning to relax. The champagne was hitting her bloodstream, dulling her nerves. She was mid-laugh at a joke Elias—who was shadowing them closely—had quietly muttered, when the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

Rowan’s hand suddenly tightened on her waist, gripping her with bruising force.

Mave followed his gaze.

Standing by the ice sculpture in the center of the room was a man surrounded by four massive bodyguards. He wore a crisp white suit that starkly contrasted with his slicked-back, silver hair. He wasn't overtly threatening in his stature, but he radiated a cold, reptilian malice that made Mave’s stomach churn.

"Viktor Volkov," Rowan murmured, his voice laced with pure venom.

Volkov caught sight of them. A slow, chilling smile spread across his face, not reaching his pale, watery blue eyes. He picked up two glasses of champagne and began walking directly toward them.

"Rowan, my old friend," Volkov greeted, his Russian accent thick and melodic. He stopped three feet away, his bodyguards fanning out behind him. "I was surprised to see your name on the guest list. You usually avoid these... theatrical displays."

"I have new reasons to celebrate, Viktor," Rowan replied evenly, though the tension rolling off his body was practically kinetic.

Volkov’s pale eyes slid from Rowan to Mave. He looked her up and down, a slick, invasive gaze that made Mave feel as though she were covered in grime.

"Ah, yes. The mysterious fiancée," Volkov purred, extending a glass of champagne toward her. "Mave, is it? I must say, you are quite the unexpected variable. Tell me, my dear, how did a simple girl from 4th Street capture the heart of the city's most ruthless ghost?"

Mave’s blood ran cold. He knows where I lived. The threat was thinly veiled but absolute. He was the one who sent the hitman.

Rowan stepped slightly in front of her, smoothly intercepting the champagne glass Volkov offered. He didn't drink it. He simply held it.

"Mave doesn't drink cheap champagne, Viktor. And she certainly doesn't accept gifts from men who can't keep their dogs on a leash." Rowan’s voice was dangerously quiet.

Volkov’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "My dogs are perfectly trained, Rowan. Sometimes, they just get a little hungry."

"Then feed them," Rowan countered smoothly, his eyes flashing with lethal promise. "Because if they come sniffing around my property again, I won't just put them down. I'll burn down the kennel."

The silence between the two men was deafening. The ambient noise of the gala seemed to vanish entirely. Volkov stared at Rowan, then shifted his gaze back to Mave, his smile returning—colder and more vicious than before.

"Enjoy the party, Miss Sullivan," Volkov said softly. "I have a feeling your time in the spotlight will be exceptionally brief."

As Volkov turned and walked away, Rowan didn't hesitate. He dropped the full glass of champagne Volkov had handed him directly onto the marble floor. It shattered with a sharp, violent crash, drawing gasps from the nearby guests.