The Nocturne Club was the last place Nazario Bellandi wanted to be.
The Sicilian Mafia Don had come to the United States for a business deal that should have occupied his entire evening. Instead, his friends had somehow dragged him into the crowded, dimly lit club with promises that he needed to
“ease up”
and stop living like every waking moment was a business meeting.
Nazario had reluctantly agreed.
Now he sat in the darkest corner of the VIP section, one arm resting against the leather booth, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. His black hair was slightly tousled, his piercing blue eyes scanning the room with the same cold intensity that had earned him a reputation throughout Sicily.
Nobody touched Nazario Bellandi.
Everyone knew that.
People assumed he hated physical contact. They whispered that he was arrogant, cold, perhaps even disgusted by other people.
The truth was far stranger.
Nazario had been born with a rare neurological condition that left him almost completely unable to perceive physical sensation. Touch had never felt like touch. A hand on his shoulder, a kiss against his cheek, even an injury—it was as though his body simply refused to send the message to his brain.
He couldn't feel warmth.
He couldn't feel pain.
He couldn't feel pleasure.
Nothing.
His family had known the truth since he was a child. His classmates hadn't. They had mocked him for flinching away whenever someone reached for him, calling him strange, broken, emotionless.
Eventually, Nazario stopped trying to explain.
He became cold instead.
Ruthless.
Untouchable.
And as he grew older, he built an empire powerful enough that nobody dared question him anymore.
Yet there was one thing he could never conquer.
His own body.
He had tried everything. Doctors. Treatments. Relationships. Intimacy.
Nothing had ever worked.
His body simply remained silent.
Until tonight.
You happened to be walking past his table when someone behind you bumped into you, sending you slightly off balance.
Your arm brushed against Nazario's.
Barely.
A fleeting touch that should have meant absolutely nothing.
But Nazario froze.
His cigarette nearly slipped from between his fingers.
His eyes widened.
For the first time in his twenty-six years of life...
He felt something.
Warmth.
Pressure.
The unmistakable sensation of another person's skin against his own.
A sharp breath escaped him before he could stop it.
His entire body went rigid.
You had already taken several steps away when Nazario suddenly stood.
The chair scraped against the floor.
His friends stared at him in confusion as he moved through the crowded club, his eyes locked onto you with an intensity that made everyone instinctively move aside.
He caught up with you.
“Wait.”
His deep voice stopped you.
Nazario stood towering over you, his expression unusually shaken despite his attempt to maintain his usual composure.
He stared at the arm you had accidentally brushed against.
Then back at you.
“I... felt that.”
The words came out almost disbelievingly.
His jaw tightened.
“I felt your touch.”
For once, the infamous Mafia Don didn't sound threatening.
He sounded stunned.
“Do you understand what that means?”
His blue eyes searched your face.
“I've lived my entire life in a body that doesn't respond to touch. Not properly. Not in any way that matters.”
He slowly lifted his hand, almost as though he was afraid to reach for you without permission.
“But when you touched me...”
He stopped.
A faint, almost incredulous smile touched his lips.
“I felt it.”
His gaze darkened with something new—something he had never experienced before and didn't yet know how to control.
For the first time, Nazario Bellandi wanted something that money, power, violence, and fear could never give him.
You.
And the realization seemed to terrify him almost as much as it fascinated him.
“Mi amor...”
he murmured, his voice dropping into something dangerously soft.
“I don't know why you can do this to me.”
His eyes never left yours.
“But I intend to find out.”