★★Leon's POV★★



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I follow Mariella as she strides through the gala, her gold dress trailing behind her like she's a queen descending from her throne. The way the dress shimmers against the low lighting of the ballroom makes her look untouchable, like some dangerous goddess. She might be a royal pain in the ass, but damn, she's got that "bad girl princess" vibe going for her—just the way I like it.

We make our way outside, the cool air hitting us as soon as we step onto the marble steps of the venue. As soon as she moves to lift the hem of her dress to walk down the stairs, I step in, my hand wrapping around the fabric before she can.

"Let me," I say, my voice soft and warm, a hint of something more lingering in the air between us.

She shoots me an annoyed look, then lets out a frustrated sigh, signaling her reluctant acceptance.

I can't help but grin as I extend my hand to her, the other hand carefully gathering her dress. As we make our way down the stairs, I glance at her and ask, "Will I be seeing you in New York?"

She glances at me, her eyes narrowing as she steps down the stairs with purpose. "Yeah, we've got the meeting with Elena," she says, her tone sharp, almost like she's daring me to say more. "But don't get any ideas, Leon."

I know I'm not going to get much more out of her, but I can't help but probe. Just before we reach the valet, I hear him call out, "Espero que hayas disfrutado tu tiempo, señorita (I hope you enjoyed your time, miss)." He hands her the keys to her car with a respectful nod.

Mariella flashes him a smile. "Gracias, pero podría haber sido mejor (Thanks, but it could have been better.) " Her gaze flicks to me as she says it, like I'm the reason her night wasn't perfect.

I can't help but smirk. She walks past me toward her car, clearly eager to leave.

I look at the valet with a playful smile. "Las mujeres también son así de tensas? (Are women this tense too?)" I ask him, genuinely curious about his take.

He smiles shyly. "No te preocupes. Mi esposa siempre actúa así, pero por eso la amo, (Don't worry. My wife always acts like that, but that's why I love her,)" he says with a fond, almost dreamy look.

Love? I shake my head, amused. Maybe he's onto something. I toss him a hundred-dollar bill, tipping him generously, and walk over to Mariella as she gets into the driver's seat.

Just as she's about to slam the door shut, I stop her, grabbing it and holding it open. She looks up at me with irritation, trying to yank it closed.

"Come on, babe," I say with a smile, pulling the door open wider. "You can't leave me just yet."

She glares at me, clearly fed up, but I'm not backing off. She huffs and leans back in her seat, her arms crossed, looking at me like she's ready to rip my head off.

"What?" she asks, voice dripping with annoyance. "Leon?"

I lean in closer, my hand pressing down on the car's hood, my gaze locking onto hers. "Darling," I murmur, voice low and charged, "I don't like how you're talking to me. Not one bit." The words hang in the air, my grin still in place, but there's an undeniable edge to it now.

She gives me a teasing look, rolling her eyes as she pushes me aside. "Cry me a river, Leon," she says, slamming the door shut with a satisfied grin.

I stand there for a moment, dumbfounded, then let out a frustrated scoff. I tap the window, and she groans, visibly annoyed as she rolls it down just a sliver, enough for me to speak.

"Yes?" she asks, her tone sharp.

With a grin, I lean in and say, "See you tomorrow morning, beautiful"

She rolls her eyes so dramatically it could've been a movie scene. "Don't hold your breath, stronzo (asshole)," she says, giving me a mocking smile before slamming the gas and zooming off.

I'm left standing there, my jaw clenched, but I can't stop the smile that tugs at my lips.

With a frustrated sigh, I flick my middle finger in her direction, making sure she knows exactly what I think.

Hope she saw that.

Turning back to the valet, who's seen the entire exchange, I chuckle, shaking my head. "Las chicas me aman," I say with a shrug as I walk toward my car, the valet chuckling along with me.

I guess it's true—they do love me.

****

After a few hours of restless sleep and half a day of traveling to New York, we were finally here—refreshed, suited up, and stepping into the towering Echo Building. The moment we enter through the revolving glass doors, we're met with the hum of a high-powered corporate world in motion.

The lobby is sleek, modern, and bustling with movement. A large seating area to the left hosts men and women in sharp suits, some engaged in hushed conversations, others tapping away on their laptops with laser focus. The receptionist's desk sits in the center, a curved, polished marble structure manned by two assistants juggling phone calls and paperwork. Executives stride across the glossy floors, folders tucked under their arms, voices brisk and clipped as they discuss numbers and strategies. The tension in the air is palpable—like something big is about to happen.

Me, Damien, and Antonio exchange glances as we take in the scene. This place screams power. Then, amidst the chaos, we spot her.

Elena.

She walks toward us, her purple dress hugging her frame, black heels clicking against the marble, her posture all confidence and control. Her dark hair is pinned up neatly, reading glasses perched on her nose, giving her an air of authority. But as her gaze flickers to Damien, something shifts. The poised, composed CEO falters for just a split second. A flicker of nervousness flashes across her face before she pulls herself together, plastering on a warm smile.

"You made it. Welcome," she greets smoothly, her voice calm but professional, her eyes sweeping over the three of us before briefly lingering on Damien again.

I glance around, taking in the organized chaos of the lobby. "Place is hectic," I remark, watching as a group of journalists are being ushered toward a side elevator, their cameras and microphones clutched tightly. There's an air of anticipation, the kind that usually means someone important is in the building.

Elena nods, her lips twitching into a knowing smile. "Well, when the President of the United States decides to visit, the media loses their minds," she says casually, like this is just another Tuesday for her. "Security's doubled, meetings are packed, and everyone's scrambling to make sure everything runs perfectly."

Damien lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. "That's pretty damn amazing for someone your age," he says, eyes sharp with interest. "I've heard about Echo before, but I had no idea you were the CEO."

Elena shrugs, but there's pride in her expression. "It took decades to build—with the help of my father, of course." Her tone is smooth, but there's weight behind her words. She didn't just inherit power—she built it.

We nod, but I find myself distracted, scanning the room for a certain someone. My eyes flick to the entrance. Nothing. Odd. Mariella's not the type to be late.

"Has Mariella arrived yet?" I ask, frowning slightly.

Elena gives me a look, then checks the watch on her wrist. "No, actually. She hasn't." A pause. "She texted me late last night, said she'd be a little late."

Late? Mariella? Doing what, exactly?

A strange feeling stirs in my gut, an unfamiliar twinge of something that feels dangerously close to worry.

Elena watches me for a beat, then gestures toward the elevator. "Well, why don't we head up to my office? I can give you a quick tour."

I nod, but my mind is elsewhere. As we follow her deeper into the building, that nagging feeling doesn't go away.

Where the hell is Mariella?

Elena leads us deeper into the building, her heels clicking against the polished floor as we step into a high-speed elevator. The mirrored walls reflect the sharp lines of our suits as the doors slide.

"As you know, Echo isn't just any media corporation," she starts, weaving through the busy halls. "We specialize in investigative journalism—real journalism. Not the clickbait nonsense most outlets push. We expose corruption, cover high-stakes global affairs, and make sure the right people are held accountable."

We pass by an open office space with rows of desks, massive screens displaying live news feeds from around the world, and journalists hunched over their computers, fingers flying across keyboards. Some are on the phone, speaking in hushed yet urgent tones, while others are reviewing footage with their teams. There's an electrifying energy to the place—an undercurrent of tension and purpose.

"You expose important people?" Damien asks, his voice carrying a hint of intrigue.

Elena nods, stopping beside a glass-walled conference room where a group of editors are reviewing a breaking news report. "Politicians, CEOs, criminals, international syndicates—we dig into everyone. If they have something to hide, we find it."

Antoino smirks. "You must make a lot of enemies."

She glances at him over her shoulder, her smile sharp. "That's an understatement."

As we move further, we pass a section of the office where several analysts are monitoring encrypted messages and leaks. Large monitors flash with classified documents, redacted reports, and live satellite images.

"We're not just about politics," she adds. "We track major players in organized crime too." Her eyes flicker toward me. "Niko included."

"This is our intelligence division," she explains. "It's where we receive and verify leaks before publication. A lot of whistleblowers trust us with sensitive information. If something's buried, we dig it up."

I fold my arms, looking around with newfound appreciation. "So you don't just report the news. You make it."

Elena tilts her head, amused. "Exactly."

She finally stops in front of a set of glass doors leading into a private office—her office. The space is minimalist but powerful, dominated by a sleek black desk, a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city, and a massive screen on one wall showing a live feed of their current investigations. Stacks of documents are neatly organized on the shelves, and a whiskey decanter sits on the side table next to a couple of crystal glasses.

She walks over to her desk, loosening the pin in her hair, letting curly dark hair fall over her shoulders. Then she turns to us, expression shifting from host to business.

"Alright," she says, crossing her arms. "Let's talk."

She's already moving, grabbing a thick black folder from her desk and tossing it onto the table in front of us.

I pick up the folder, flipping through the contents—pages filled with wire transfers, offshore accounts, recorded conversations, and detailed breakdowns of Niko's trafficking routes. It's all there. His empire, laid bare.

Damien lets out a low whistle. "Shit. This is enough to bury him ten times over."

Elena nods, arms crossed. "His financials, political ties, operations—I've tracked it all. But the reason I haven't pulled the trigger is simple." She steps forward, resting her hands on the table as she looks us dead in the eyes. "Niko isn't just another corrupt bastard. He's a monster. And monsters don't go down easy."

I lean back, considering her words. "You're scared of him?"

Her jaw tightens. "I'm not scared of him. I'm realistic. If I go public with this without backup, he'll burn everything to the ground—including me. The only way to make this work is if I have enough power behind me to make sure he doesn't get back up."

Leon closes the folder, his expression unreadable. "And that's where we come in."

Elena nods. "The French mafia. Your people have the influence, the firepower, and the connections to make sure Niko doesn't just run and hide. With your backing, we can force him out of whatever hole he's been hiding in and put every piece of dirt I have on full display."

Damien smirks. "You want us to go to war with him."

She doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

I glance at Leon, then at Damien. There's a moment of silence before I finally say, "If we do this, we do it right. No half-measures."

Elena's eyes flash with determination. "That's the only way it gets done."

Leon exhales, shaking his head with a grin. "Well, this just got a hell of a lot more interesting."

I tap my fingers against the table, already forming a plan. "Then let's drag this bastard into the light and watch him burn."

The door swings open so hard it nearly smacks against the wall, and in struts her—Mariella, in head-to-toe black, like she's here to deliver a eulogy rather than discuss business. A long trench coat billows behind her, the sharp click of her heels cutting through the room. Her black dress hugs her just right, sheer tights giving a teasing glimpse of skin. She's got her hair tied up in one of those messy, effortless styles, and the only color on her is the deep red lipstick, a shade that looks like sin itself.

She's chewing gum—chewing gum, at a meeting like this—popping a bubble just as she lowers her black sunglasses and scans the room like she owns the damn place.

I feel my jaw tighten. "Mariella," I say, my voice controlled, but barely. "Where the hell were you?"

She smirks, slow and lazy, like she was expecting the question. "What, no hello? No you look stunning, Mariella?" She tsks, shaking her head as she shrugs off her coat, tossing it over the nearest chair before finally looking at me. "Disappointing, really."

I take a step closer, arms crossed. "You're late."

She flicks a piece of lint off her dress, entirely unbothered. "Yeah? And?"

Damien exhales sharply beside me, clearly amused, while Elena watches the interaction with a knowing look, waiting to see how far I'll push it.

I narrow my eyes. "Where were you?"

Mariella leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in her hands. Her grin is all mischief. "Getting ready."

I don't buy it for a second. "For what?"

She pops another bubble before grinning wider. "Niko's funeral."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

She waves a hand, dismissive. "I figured I'd dress appropriately, you know? All black. Very fitting, no?"

I stare at her, the way she's so damn good at twisting the conversation away from anything real. She's lying. I know she is. And she knows that I know.

"You're full of shit," I mutter.

She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest like I just accused her of murder. "Leon, how dare you?" Then she tilts her head, lips curling. "You wound me."

"Cut the act."

Her eyes glint with amusement. "Relax, chéri (dear). I was just... taking my time. A girl's gotta look good when she's about to destroy a man, don't you think?"

I exhale sharply, feeling a headache forming.

Elena, finally deciding to move things along, claps her hands together. "Well, now that the main event has arrived..." she says, eyeing Mariella with something between exasperation and amusement, "let's get to business."

Mariella grins, pulling out a lollipop from somewhere, unwrapping it with deliberate slowness before popping it into her mouth. She leans back in her chair, twirling the stick between her fingers, and shoots me a wink.

"What did I miss?" she asks, voice dripping with amusement.

I swear to God, she's going to kill me before Niko ever gets the chance.

Elena grabs her laptop and starts typing with sharp precision, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she focuses. Screens light up across the room, the glow reflecting in her lenses. A storm is about to hit, and she's the one pulling the trigger.

"Niko's empire operates in three layers," she says, her fingers flying over the keys. "Financial, political, and operational. His money is funneled through shell companies and offshore accounts. His political connections keep him untouchable. And his operations? Well, we all know what those entail." Her voice hardens at the last part, and I don't miss the way her hands briefly clench.

Mariella, meanwhile, is not paying attention. She's leaned back in her chair, rolling her lollipop over her tongue like we're discussing the weather. Her sunglasses are still perched on her nose, and she hasn't even pretended to be serious.

I glare at her. "Are you even listening?"

She tilts her head lazily toward me, lips curling around the stick of her lollipop. "Mmm," she hums, exaggerated, before pulling it out with a pop. "Of course, darling. Elena here is about to ruin Niko's life, and I, for one, love a good scandal."

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face. "Mariella."

She raises a brow, amused. "Leon."

I lean in, lowering my voice. "Where were you?"

Her grin doesn't waver, but there's something else in her eyes now—something unreadable. "Told you. Getting ready."

I grip the edge of the table, annoyed beyond reason. "That's not an answer."

She leans forward, just close enough that I catch the faint scent of her perfume—something dark and sweet, just like her. Her voice drops, teasing. "Then maybe you should ask the right question."

God, she's infuriating. And she knows it.

Before I can press further, Elena speaks up, her voice sharp. "Alright." She exhales, straightening in her seat. "Everything is ready."

The air shifts. The weight of what we're about to do settles over the room.

Elena clicks a few final keys and then turns to us. "I just sent a call to my management team. Once I press this button, everything—everything—goes public. His financials, his political ties, his human trafficking network. Niko won't be able to hide."

There's a moment of silence. The weight of what's about to happen presses down, and for once, even Mariella is still.

Then Elena looks up. "Who wants to do the honors?"

Before I can even blink, Mariella shoots up, raising her hand like a kid in a classroom. "Ooooh, me!"

Elena blinks. "You're sure?"

Mariella's already moving, sauntering over with an excited glint in her eyes, lollipop still in her mouth. "Hell yes. This is history, baby."

She leans over the laptop, finger hovering dramatically over the keyboard.

"Mariella," I warn, because of course she's making a spectacle out of it.

She grins at me, completely unserious, eyes sparkling with mischief. Then, with the flair of someone lighting a firework, she slams the key.

"And boom goes the empire."

The screen flashes. The files send.

It's done.

The storm has begun.

The room hums with a new energy, a quiet storm brewing beneath the weight of what we just did. Elena leans back, rubbing her temples. "Now we wait," she says. "The media will pick it up in minutes, and then it's only a matter of time before Niko retaliates."

Antoine nods, cracking his knuckles. "We should prepare for his next move. He won't go down without a fight."

Mariella, however, is entirely unbothered. She leans back in her chair, rolling her lollipop around her tongue like she didn't just set a man's empire on fire. "Retaliate all he wants. He can cry about it in the papers."

I shoot her a look. "You do realize he's going to want your head first, right?"

She smirks. "Let him try."

Antoine chuckles, nodding at her lollipop. "What flavor is that anyway?"

Mariella pulls it out slowly, inspecting it like it holds the answers to the universe. "Cherry. But not just any cherry. The kind that makes you wanna kiss someone."

I tense. "Oh, for the love of—"

Antoine raises a brow, amused. "Didn't realize cherry had that effect."

Mariella twirls the stick between her fingers and smirks at me. "Oh, it does. Want a taste, Leon?"

I snap. "Will both of you shut the hell up?"

Mariella bursts into laughter, tipping her head back like this is all some kind of joke. Antoine just smirks and holds his hands up in surrender.

Elena clears her throat, looking between us with mild concern. "Right... I think we should strategize next steps."

I don't hear her. My patience is gone, and I'm done playing games. "Everybody out."

Elena blinks. "I—what?"

I push back my chair, standing to my full height. "Out. Now."

She frowns. "Leon, this is my office—"

I give her a look.

She exhales, glancing at Damien and Antoine, who are already getting up. "Fine."

Mariella watches in amusement as they all shuffle out. Elena gives me a long, suspicious look before closing the door behind her.

And then it's just us.

The tension shifts instantly. The air thickens, the silence crackling with something hot and unspoken.

Mariella tilts her head, sucking the last of her lollipop before pulling it out with a slow pop. "You gonna yell at me, big guy?"

I exhale sharply through my nose. "Enough, Mariella."

She blinks at me innocently. "Enough of what?"

I move. One second I'm across the room, the next I have her pinned against the table, rough and unrelenting. My body presses into hers, one hand gripping her wrist against the polished wood, the other bracing the table beside her head.

She gasps—a soft, sharp sound—before it melts into a low chuckle. "Well, damn, Leon," she purrs, arching beneath me. "I knew you wanted to get me alone, but this is bold."

I lean in, our noses almost touching. "Tell me the truth."

She feigns confusion. "About what?"

I press her down harder, my weight sinking against her curves. "Where were you before the meeting?"

She shifts, arching her back and deliberately rubbing her ass against my cock. My jaw clenches as a sharp bolt of heat shoots through me.

"Mariella." My voice is low, edged with warning.

She smirks. "Hmm?"

I grip her waist tighter. "You're playing with fire."

Her eyes flash with mischief. "Good thing I like the heat."

I exhale, dragging my lips close to her ear, my voice dark and quiet. "You're going to tell me."

She hums, tilting her head slightly, exposing the line of her throat. "Maybe."

I tighten my grip. "Now."

She exhales dramatically, her lips curling. "Fine. But first..." She shifts slightly beneath me. "Let me go."

I don't move. "Not until you—"

"Leon," she cuts me off, her voice teasing but firm. "My lipstick is smudging all over this table, and it's a damn shame."

I glance down, and sure enough, there's a smear of red on the glossy surface.

I swear under my breath.

She grins. "Now let go."

I release her, but only just, stepping back enough to give her space—but not too much. She straightens slowly, smoothing out her dress, running a finger over her lips before fixing her eyes on me.

Then, finally, she speaks.

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I lovveee her.

I wonder where she was...

Bye, lovies! (っ◔◡◔)っ

Maddie♡

*Mariella's Outfit*