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The man leans in close to her, his lips brushing her ear as he whispers something, his voice a dark melody.

I can’t catch the words, but I don’t need to. The way her body melts into his, how her back arches like he’s poured fire down her spine, says it all. Something twists deep inside me—envy, jealousy, and something raw and mean that I don’t want to name.

His eyes catch the dim light, warm like melted chocolate but with an edge, like blood swirling in the depths. His hair, short and sharp on the sides but wild on top, looks like he’s been running his hands through it—or maybe someone else has. The five o’clock shadow on his jaw adds to the danger, the pull. It’s almost unfair how good he looks, except for his mouth. His lips are too full. They look like they don’t belong on his face, but somehow, it just makes him harder to look away from.

There’s an accent, too, faint but there. It’s frustrating how familiar he feels. It’s like I should know him, or maybe I just want to. Those thoughts burn, bitter and humiliating.

Men like this, the kind who kiss women’s necks and pull their strings like puppets, don’t exist in my world. My life is smaller, safer, and boring as hell. I paint, I binge-watch shows, I sleep.

My friends are the same—safe and predictable, a reflection of me.

I don’t have the time or the means to make friends that push my limits. My limits stay the same.

So what the hell is Remo doing in my life? Men like him shouldn’t even glance my way, let alone pull me into their orbit. Yet here I am in his club, where he throws illegal sex parties like they’re art exhibits. And forces me to watch.

I don’t want to watch. But no, that’s a lie. The heat curling low in my stomach tells a different story. It’s been so long since I’ve felt…anything. Desire, connection, a spark. I want to believe that’s all this is—starvation, not lust for him. Not this sick urge to be the woman in his arms.

“Enjoying the show, Dolcezza?” His voice snakes into my thoughts, smooth and taunting. I flinch, realizing how close he’s sitting. Too close. Instead of feeling creeped out, I’m drawn to the warmth of his breath and the tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach.

I hate that I don’t pull away.

I hate that I feel the heat rise in my cheeks and something heavier and lower that I wish wasn’t there.

Chapter 7

Daniela

“My name is Daniela,” I snap, turning to glare at him. “I’ve told you. I don’t do nicknames.”

He smirks, slow and infuriating, like he’s savoring the way I bristle. His eyes sweep over me, deliberate and unapologetic. “But Dolcezza suits you,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost playful. “And I think you like it more than you’ll admit.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because maybe, just maybe, he’s right. And that thought terrifies me more than anything.

He laughs again like he’s savoring a private joke. It’s the kind of laugh that scrunches his face just slightly but not enough to mar it. Remo Callegari is incapable of being anything less than infuriatingly perfect. He could wear a burlap sack or shave his head on a dare, and it wouldn’t matter.

He’s always pristine. Tailored suits, polished watch, and his cologne—God, his cologne—that clings to the air long after he’s gone. As if mocking me.

“I think you like whatever I call you,” he says. “You love it even. I see it in the way your breath hitches when I lean in. And the little sighs you let slip when you think I’m not listening. You like my attention, Dolcezza. So don’t pretend otherwise. We both know that’s the least of your problems.”

The worst part is he’s right. My body betrays me in ways I can’t control. It’s a flaw, a cruel defect in my wiring.

I glance back at the scene in front of me, desperate for a distraction.

The man kneels between the woman’s thighs now, his hands spreading them apart with a hunger that feels almost reverent. He sucks in a breath as he stares down at her swollen clit.

His face is close, so close, and when his tongue flicks out, she bucks her hips toward him, a soundless plea for more.

And I hate the fact that I feel it too. That my body is betraying me in the same way hers is betraying her.

“Why? Are you opposed to small talk, Daniela?” His voice is playful, mocking, like he knows the storm raging in my head.

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I open my mouth, I’ll give too much away. So I do the only thing I can. I pretend. I pretend he isn’t here and that his presence doesn’t twist me into knots I don’t know how to untangle. I pretend the heat pooling in my stomach is just the room, the scene, and the overwhelming absurdity of it all.

But even as I try to convince myself that I’m not affected, I can’t shake the feeling of how close he is to me. And the worst part? It seems like he already knows how this is all going to play out.

“Hello? Earth to Daniela! Are you there?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

“Why would you want to talk about a sex room?” I reply, my voice a mix of disbelief and defiance.