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Men like us don’t deserve angels like her.

She’s not mine. She can’t be.

I chuckle to myself. A dry, bitter sound.

What the hell was I thinking? That I… loved her? That’s not love. That’s hormones. I’ve been locked up for years. She’s the only woman I’ve touched in years—of course I’m acting like a dog in heat. Back then, I’d have three women in one night and still wake up unsatisfied.

This is just proximity. Just deprivation.

I turn from her and walk to the closet, yanking a shirt from the hanger. I throw it on and grab my gun from the side table, tucking it into my waistband.

As I run a hand through my hair, I glance once more at her sleeping form.

Peaceful. Beautiful. Too good for me.

“Vieri,” I mutter to myself. “Tonight, you’ll find a woman who’ll make you come… and you’ll get over this fucking nonsense.”

****

In Bugatti’s club, the music’s low and throbbing, wrapping the private lounge in a haze of smoke and velvet shadows. The lights are dimmed to gold and burgundy, casting soft, seductive shapes across the walls. My shirt is unbuttoned to my chest, collar loose. A woman—tall, lean, blonde—sways her hips in front of me, bare thighs brushing my lap as she straddles me. Her perfume thick and sweet, her breasts pressed up. Her movements are smooth, her hips syncing with the beat pulsing through the club’s bones.

I sit back, expression blank, fingers draped loosely over the armrest while she rides my crotch. My eyes drift over her curves. Her hand traces a line down my chest as she makes eye contact. The door opens and a second woman steps into view.

Curvy. Full-bodied. Soft where the dancer is all angles and lines. Her breasts strain against a backless black dress, the neckline plunging so low it almost reaches her stomach. I asked for her specifically.

Her curls are a rich brown, and she styles them like Lunetta styled hers at the party. A few strands fall loose, brushing her cheek

She smiles, there's nothing innocent about her and it is what I need. Her lips are painted a bright, aggressive red. Her gaze flicks to the dancer still working my lap.

I tap the blonde’s hip once. She gets up and leaves without a word.

The second woman strolls toward me, hips swinging beneath the black silk and she hands me a glass of wine, brushing her fingers along mine as I take it.

“You can call me Donna,” she purrs, voice thick, slurring just enough to sound intentionally breathy.

She slides down onto my lap—slowly, deliberately—her thighs warm and plush as they straddle me. She’s soft, curvy, heavy in all the right places. Her perfume is warmer than the last—spiced, smoky. Still wrong.

Her hand drifts up to my chest, nails grazing across my collarbone. “You don’t talk much,” she whispers. “I like that in a man.”

I down half the wine in a single swallow. She presses closer. Her eyes are half-lidded. Her tongue runs across her lower lip.

I lean in and kiss her.

Her mouth is wet, and she presses in like she’s hungry for it—but I feel nothing. The pressure is wrong. My jaw clenches. Her breath smells like synthetic cherry gloss and wine. I pull away after barely a second.

She giggles, fingers brushing the edge of her neckline as she wipes her mouth. “I like you already.”

I force a smile. It doesn’t reach my eyes. She looks so much like Lunetta—at least from a distance. Full hips. Dark curls. Lush curves.

But everything else is wrong.

There’s no innocence in her eyes, no tremble in her hands, no hesitation in her touch. No breathless gasp when I get too close. No wide-eyed confusion. No sweetness.

The door opens again and Bugatti steps in. He glances at Donna.

She stands, reading the room like a professional. With a teasing smile, she reaches into her dress and produces a sleek black card. She slides it into my palm. Then she leans down, plants a kiss on my mouth. She pulls back with a wink. “Call me,” she whispers.

Then she walks away, her hips swaying.