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I burst out laughing, shaking my head. Not because she’s wrong to ask, but because she nailed it. Iamdressing like a doll because I want to play.

Chapter 21

Lorenzo

The ballroom of Obsidian Tulip Hall breathes with ambition—suits and gowns circling each other like sharks scenting blood in the water. I watch them from behind my black mask, which isn’t dripping with feathers or gilded edges. Simplicity at its finest.

The party is already in full swing, seventy-five bodies packed into the hall. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across marble floors. The air tastes of expensive champagne—sharp, saccharine, and laced with ambition.

To them, this is the pinnacle of access—an invitation people would sell their souls to get. And they do. Some through money, others through favors, a select few through secrets. The cost varies, but everyone pays.

I host this event every year for two reasons: irony and indulgence. In my world, masks aren’t reserved for costume parties. They’re worn by politicians who preach family values while fucking their secretaries, by CEOs who champion sustainability while their factories poison rivers.

Tonight is simply the one day a year everyone openly wears a mask. The honesty in that lie amuses me.

“And what are your thoughts on the latest appropriations bill?”

Senator Kinley has been talking at me for ten minutes, his voice a grating intrusion. His mask—gold filigree with emerald accents—probably cost more than his assistant’s monthly salary. I notice how his eyes drift to every young woman who passes, even as he speaks about fiscal responsibility.

“The language regarding foreign aid is problematic,” I say, offering just enough to seem engaged. “The restrictions will cripple our allies in Eastern Europe.”

Not that I care. Not that I’ll back his opposition either. The Russo family has existed longer than this country. We’ve learned to profit regardless of who holds power.

“Precisely my concern,” Kinley nods, mistaking my response for alliance. “I’ve been trying to tell…”

I don’t hear the rest of his sentence. My spine straightens as if pulled by an invisible wire. The hair on the back of my neck rises. The air in the room changes—becomes charged, electric. My body knows before my eyes confirm.

My perfect little toy has arrived.

It’s not sight, not sound—it’s something deeper, almost primal. Like my heartbeat resetting to match a rhythm only I can hear. My fingers tighten imperceptibly around my whiskey glass as I turn, the movement unhurried despite the sudden rush of blood in my veins.

She stands in the doorway, hesitating for just a moment before Ben Jacks urges her forward with a hand pressed low on her back. Too low. I want to rip them from their sockets. I want to extract each finger, one by one, that dares to touch what’smine.

I keep my face still, my body relaxed, even as I track her movements. Even as I imagine the sound his neck would make if I snapped it right here, in front of D.C.’s elite.

“Excuse me, Senator,” I say, cutting him off mid-sentence. “I see some new faces I need to welcome.”

I don’t wait for his response. He’ll interpret it as rudeness born of power, not the warning it actually is. Stay relevant or stay silent. The Russo family has no use for political allies who can’t keep up.

I make my way toward the bar, positioning myself strategically so I have a perfectly unobstructed view of my toy as she walks into the room.

Her skin is painted porcelain white, cheeks flushed just right. Her full lips are the color of blood, and I want to feel them part around my dick. Her lashes are thick, impossibly long, and doll-like. Two high pigtails bounce with every movement, each tied with a blood-red bow.

That velvet dress clings to her bodice like fucking sin. The deep crimson fabric is cut like a corset, stitched tight enough that her tits look like they’d spill with the right pressure. She’s fucking perfect.

Someone touches my arm and laughs close to my ear. I don’t bother looking. I bat their hand away like an insect, eyes never leaving the toy that just wandered into my den.

My gaze drifts down her dress to the skirt. It’s long in the back, flaring behind her like she’s dragging every man’s soul across the floor. In the front, it’s short. Only reaching her mid-thigh, revealing garters I want to tear apart with my teeth.

She’s wearing long black gloves that cover her to the upper arms—feminine, dramatic. And her shoes… fuck. Five-inch jet black heels with small bows on the toes.

A doll’s shoes on a body meant to be used. And around her neck? A black silk ribbon, tied like a choker, its tails brushing the top of her chest. Decorative, sure—but I could pull them tighter. Loop them around my fist. Make her breathe for me.

She came dressed like my fantasy. I lick my bottom lip, slow and unhurried, imagining what her lipstick will taste like. My jaw flexes again. The need to drag her away and fuck her against any surface that’ll hold is almost overwhelming.

Signaling the bartender, he rushes to bring me another whiskey without being asked. The ice clinks against the crystal as I take a measured sip, enjoying the burn. Across the room, Piper laughs at something, the sound carrying even over the murmur of conversations.

I watch as she excuses herself from her current conversation. Ben tries to follow, but she shakes her head, gesturing toward the ladies’ room.