From the beginning, it was a paradoxical encounter.

“A clean body for someone in the mafia.”

She, the agent—

“I don’t like drawing on my body, so I haven’t.”

—and he, the mafia boss, met.

“But if you want it.”

His steps were elegant and dignified. Why was someone in the mafia even graceful?

“I could at least engrave your name.”

He picked up a pen with the unusually long space between his middle and index fingers. He pulled off the pen cap with his lips and spat it on the floor, then rolled up one sleeve.

A black line from the pen drew across his pale skin.

{Hye-young}

Hye-young. A name her Italian adoptive parents insisted she keep, saying the Korean name was beautiful.

“How is it? Do you think it’ll look pretty?”

Looking at his elegantly drawn handwriting, Hye-young replied.

“… What if I say it will?”

“If you say it’s pretty,”

A sinister light shimmered in his eyes.

“I’ll engrave it right now.”

Why was it that, at the mention of him engraving a tattoo on his arm, the space between her legs tightened?

“You… really…”

One thing was for sure—He really was a madman.

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