Seventeen Women Ran From the Korean Mafia Boss, but a Woman Looked Him in the Eye and Made Him Fear Himself Instead

While Naomi packed her duffel bag in the master suite, the front security intercom chimed softly.

Daniel didn’t answer it. In his world, chimes meant warnings. He walked stiffly to the entryway, his jaw clenched, and checked the encrypted monitor. Downstairs in the sleek, minimalist lobby of the Rainier Tower, two men in rain-soaked trench coats stood by the elevator bank.

One of them looked up directly into the camera lens, flashing a cold, knowing smile.

It was Viktor Vance, the ruthless lieutenant of the Bratva’s Pacific Northwest syndicate. For six months, Daniel had been locked in a silent, bloody turf war with Vance over the shipping lanes connecting Seattle to the Port of Vancouver. Up until tonight, Daniel had believed Vance was the one orchestrating the threats against Naomi.

Now, with the bitter realization that he had staged half those threats himself to bind Naomi to him, Daniel felt a cold sweat break out across his spine. *If I didn't send all those messages... who did?*

The intercom buzzed. A low, distorted voice drifted through the speaker. *"Open up, Han. We need to talk about your little nurse friend. Turns out, Vance isn't the only one who knows where she sleeps."*

Daniel’s blood turned to ice. He hit the intercom button. “If you step foot on this floor, Vance, I will throw you off the balcony myself.”

“Oh, Daniel,” Vance’s voice echoed, dripping with mock pity. “You think you’re the apex predator of this city. But you’ve grown soft. You fell in love with a civilian. And now? Everyone knows where the dragon keeps his heart.”

Inside the bedroom, Naomi zipped her canvas bag. She heard the tense murmur of Daniel’s voice through the heavy oak door. She didn’t care about his mafia wars. She was done being a pawn in a game she never signed up to play.

She opened the door and walked past Daniel, who stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the security screen.

“Where are you going?” Daniel asked, his voice losing its authoritative edge, sounding suddenly hollow.

“Home,” Naomi said simply, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “Or a motel. Anywhere that doesn't smell like paranoia and blood.”

“Naomi, wait. Listen to me,” Daniel pleaded, stepping into her path. “Vance is downstairs. Or someone pretending to be him. If you walk out of this building right now, you aren't just leaving me—you are walking directly into the crosshairs of people who want to hurt me by destroying you.”

Naomi stopped. She looked up at him, her eyes flashing with defiance. “And who built the crosshairs, Daniel? You did. You dragged me into your filth. Every danger I’m facing tonight exists because you couldn't handle the idea of a normal woman walking away from you.”

Before Daniel could answer, the penthouse door exploded inward.