When the heavy black iron door closed behind her, the dull sound it made was like the end of one world and the beginning of another. Isabella Thorne felt as if she had been swallowed by a giant beast, the surrounding air instantly becoming scorching hot and viscous, filled with the intertwined scent of life and decay.

This was "Nightshade."


The rumbling bass reverberated like the heartbeat of this giant beast, each pulsation striking against her sternum, making it difficult to breathe. Luxury was the only language spoken here. Dark red light seeped from LED strips hidden behind velvet walls, resembling flowing blood, painting every face with a crimson hue of sin. Crystal chandeliers refracted fragmented light and shadows onto expensive bodies writhing freely on the dance floor. The air was a mixture of luxurious perfumes, spicy cigars, fruity champagne, and salty sweat—a dizzying fragrance that belonged to depravity.

Isabella, dressed in her modest oatmeal-colored long dress, stood in this ocean of silk, sequins, and exposed skin like a drop of clear water mistakenly fallen into boiling oil, instantly evaporating without a trace amid the surrounding clamor. Her incongruity was so obvious that some glances sweeping over her carried undisguised scrutiny, as if examining a lost lamb.

Her heart was timidly shrinking back, but Richard's verdict "you're too boring" worked like a spell, urging her forward. She forced herself to straighten her spine, clutching the wad of cash that represented her entire past, and walked step by step toward the bar. Those few steps seemed to take a century, each one treading on fragments of her self-esteem.


"Give me your strongest drink," she said to the bartender, her voice somewhat dry from nervousness.

The bartender was a man with a fashionable beard. He gave her an appraising look, then took out a bottle of deep amber liquid from a dazzling array of bottles, filled a glass, and handed it to her. "'Demon's Kiss,'" he introduced with a hint of a suggestive smile. "Good luck, sweetheart."


Isabella downed half the glass in one go. The spicy liquid burned like a line of fire from her throat straight to her stomach. The intense burning sensation made her eyes redden, but it also brought a false, desperate courage. The alcohol was like a protective film, temporarily shielding her from fear and anxiety. She leaned against the bar, feigning composure as she looked around, beginning to search for her "prey."

She needed a man who could tear her apart completely. Someone who could color her beige world with the most intense hues using the most primal passion. She scanned those young bankers grinding on the dance floor, who, like Richard, were nothing more than handsome shells; she also saw those middle-aged wealthy businessmen surrounded by women, talking grandly, their desires written plainly on their faces, greasy and boring.

None of them were right.

Just as she was about to be overwhelmed by all this superficiality, her gaze pierced through the hazy lights and the surging crowd, finally becoming firmly fixed on a corner.

It was the darkest and quietest booth in the entire bar. A man sat there alone, as if he existed in a different dimension of space and time. He looked at no one, only gazing down at the barely touched whiskey before him, his slender fingers occasionally sliding along the edge of the glass. The air around him seemed frozen, forming an invisible field that kept others at a distance, isolating all the surrounding noise and restlessness. Even in such a noisy environment, that extreme coldness and tranquility about him was like a giant magnet, or rather, a black hole, irresistibly drawing all of Isabella's attention.

He wore a deep gray custom-tailored suit, cut so perfectly it was like a second skin, outlining his broad shoulders and powerful silhouette consumed by shadows. The dim lighting cast a profound shadow across his sharply defined profile, his high bridge nose and tightly pressed thin lips forming a cold, hard, and perfect line. He was the embodiment of "danger" in her fantasies, the perfect destination for her journey of rebellion.

It was him.

Meanwhile, Alessandro Vitale's patience was wearing thin. He hadn't come here tonight for entertainment. An important informant had arranged to meet him here to report on the recent unusual activities of the rival Marco family at the docks. This involved an arms deal worth tens of millions and his family's reputation in New York's underworld.

However, the informant was late.

He disliked waiting, and disliked even more having his plans disrupted. He frowned slightly, just about to pick up the phone to urge his bodyguard Luca, who was lurking in the shadows, to handle the situation, when his peripheral vision caught a figure that shouldn't be there.

A girl.

She wore a dress that was jarringly out of place here, excessively plain, like a startled deer stumbling into a jungle surrounded by predators. Her eyes mixed fear with some strange determination, like a candle flame wavering in the wind yet refusing to go out. Alessandro, having seen countless people, immediately recognized she didn't belong here. He had seen too many women seeking to climb the ladder of power, their eyes full of calculation and greed. But in this girl's eyes, there was only a pure, almost self-destructive searching.

He thought she was just a lost tourist who would soon be frightened away by the atmosphere here. But in the next moment, he was somewhat surprised to find that the girl's gaze had pierced through the layers of silhouettes, landing directly and precisely on him. That gaze was unabashed, carrying a moth-to-flame kind of resolve.

Alessandro's furrowed brow relaxed, replaced by an almost imperceptible hint of amusement. This was interesting.

Isabella drained the remaining "Demon's Kiss" in her glass. The alcohol completely ignited the last trace of reason in her blood, and also burned away all her paths of retreat. She took a deep breath, pushed through the crowd, and walked straight toward that corner.

With each step closer, the oppressive aura emanating from that man grew increasingly intense. It was a cold, heavy presence born of absolute power, making her legs tremble weakly. She could feel several piercing gazes locked onto her from the shadows, like cheetahs hidden in the depths of a jungle, ready to pounce and tear her apart at any moment.

But she didn't stop.

She finally reached the man's table. He slowly raised his head, and those eyes, deep as a cold pond, finally looked directly at her. In that instant, Isabella felt as if she had been stripped naked, standing bare on the icy plains of Siberia. All her pretenses, all her courage, were exposed under his all-seeing gaze with nowhere to hide.

Her hand was trembling, but she used every ounce of strength to control it. Then, in the dead silence, she made a gesture that caused everyone in the corner to turn and stare.

*Slap!*

She slammed the thick envelope full of cash heavily onto the expensive ebony table. That dull sound seemed particularly abrupt amid the deafening music, like a sudden gunshot.

Alessandro's gaze slowly moved from her face, flushed with alcohol and nervousness, to the stack of cash, his eyebrows raising almost imperceptibly. It was the first real expression that appeared on his face—astonishment.

Isabella, meeting his inquiring gaze, used all the courage of her life to say word by word, her voice hoarse from trembling, yet carrying undeniable determination:

"Tonight, you are mine."

Time seemed to stand still.

Alessandro looked at the trembling girl before him who was trying hard to maintain a posture of control. The astonished expression on his face gradually faded away, replaced by a trace of unprecedented, almost pleasurable amusement that flashed through the unfathomable depths of his eyes. In his thirty-plus years of life, sitting at the pinnacle of power, he had seen countless instances of flattery and experienced numerous assassination plots, yet he had never encountered such a... direct and absurd "deal."

She wanted to buy him. With that ridiculous stack of money.

He noticed his bodyguard Luca tensing up in the shadows, his hand quietly reaching behind his waist. Alessandro discreetly raised one hand, making an extremely subtle gesture that meant "no need to interfere."

Then, he picked up the constantly vibrating phone on the table. On the other end was his anxious informant. Alessandro didn't even listen to the other party's explanation, but simply said in his steady and cold tone:

"Cancel the plan."

After saying this, he hung up the phone and casually tossed the communication device containing commercial secrets worth tens of millions onto the table, as if it were nothing more than an insignificant toy.

Finally, he stood up. His movements were slow and elegant, and as he rose, that powerful sense of pressure almost suffocated Isabella. He was even taller than she had imagined, his shadow completely enveloping her.

He walked up to her, slightly bent down, and leaned close to her ear. The scent of expensive cologne mixed with crisp air completely surrounded her. Isabella was so nervous she almost stopped breathing.

She expected to hear mockery or a cold rejection.

However, he simply spoke to her trembling ear in a deep, magnetic voice that resembled a lover's whisper, smiling as he said:

"As you wish, miss."