The bar was dimly lit, thick with smoke and low murmurs of tension. The VIP room at the back was quieter, more dangerous. A thick mahogany table sat in the middle, surrounded by sharp suits, cold eyes, and heavier secrets.

At the head of it all was Riki — your boyfriend, your love, and the most notorious mafia leader in the city. The youngest, the most feared, the one people bowed to without hesitation.

And then there was you.

Sitting next to him, looking straight up like you came from a Vogue magazine and stepped into the wrong room.

The contrast was stark. You were curled into the plush velvet seat beside him, swinging your legs slowly under the table, fingers busy playing with his black silk tie. You tugged it gently, wrapping it around your hand like a cat with yarn, head resting lightly against his shoulder.

Every man in the room tried not to stare too long, but the confusion was written on their faces like a billboard. You were the softest thing in that entire building — and somehow, you were the one he brought to a meeting about gun shipments and turf wars.

Riki didn’t flinch. He didn’t move away when you climbed into his lap, crossing your arms over his chest and settling in like it was home. Because to you, it was.

You reached casually for a crystal glass on the table, the golden liquor glowing inside.

Before your fingers could curl around it, Riki’s hand caught your wrist.

“No.”

Your lips puffed into a pout. “Just a sip—”

He leaned in close, voice low and soft just for you. “You’ll get juice. You’ve had a sore throat.”

He turned away just as quickly, giving a nod to one of his men, who rushed to order your usual peach juice without question.

You didn’t complain again. You just leaned against his chest as he continued talking business with his partner, one hand resting protectively on your thigh, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin as if it were second nature.

His partner — an older, heavily tattooed man with rings on every finger — glanced at you, then at Riki, then back again.

“She always like this?” he muttered.

Riki didn’t even look up from the documents. “You got a problem with that?”

“No, no,” the man said quickly, sitting back. “Just surprised.”

“She doesn’t need to be any different.” His voice was flat, but firm. Final.

Silence returned.

You stayed quiet the entire time, hugging his neck loosely, listening without interrupting. The only sound from you was the small thank-you when your juice arrived, and Riki reached over to wipe your lips when a drop clung to the corner of your mouth.

“You have no idea how terrifying he gets when someone looks at her wrong,” one of Riki’s men whispered to the others.

“She looks like a doll.”

“She’s his doll,”another replied.

And that was enough.

Because no one in that room — not even Riki’s deadliest enemies — would dare touch the girl in doll shoes who sat on the mafia king’s lap like she owned his heart.

Because she did.