Page 76 of Malicious Claim

More importantly, how would Stefanos handle it?

Would he step in and protect her? Would he ignore it? Or would he take advantage of the situation?

The real mission wasn't the delivery.

It was watching them both unravel.

Chapter Thirty Three

Paradiso Notturno

Paradiso Notturno was not just a club, it was a shrine of sin, an exclusive sanctuary where men with blood on their hands toasted champagne without guilt, or remorse. Deals were struck in the VIP booths draped in red velvet, fortunes won and lost at exclusive gambling tables, and secrets were conceived and buried among the heavy, crimson curtained walls.

Leila stepped out first, her stilettos clicking against the gleaming marble floor. She was dressed for the part wearing a black silk dress with a high slit, which exposed just enough skin to be distracting, but not tempting.

Stefanos lagged behind her a beat later, his movements unhurried. He remained impassive, his face fixed in the same distant look he had worn since they left the Crete estate.

They hadn't exchanged a single word since they embarked on the journey, and Leila was grateful. After what had happened in the Don's private library, any conversation between them would've been infected with unspoken recriminations, festering anger, and things that neither of them was ready to confront.

Two bouncers at the entrance stepped forward, their eyes scanning the approaching figures of Leila and Stefanos with quiet authority. One of them extended a hand demanding for their weapon. Stefanos hesitated briefly before handing over his gun, feeling its weight leave his palm. The bouncer inspected it, gave a curt nod, and stepped aside. As they walked forward, the massive double doors swung open revealing the world within.

Inside, the air was thick, heady, almost suffocating. It reeked of the acrid mix of cigars, spiced cologne, and the finest liquor money could buy.

Strippers moved with a snake-like precision along their poles, their bodies twirling in rhythm with the sensual throb of the jazz music playing in the background.

Power swirled in the air like smoke, and everyone present knew exactly where they stood in the pecking order.

Then there was Salvatore, waiting for them, perched in a tall-backed leather chair in the center of the room like a king over his domain. The deep blue of his suit contrasted against the warm, golden and crimson background, so that it was not hard to find him. He did not have to ask for attention—it seemed to go to him like a magnet. His dark hair was slicked back, his sharp Italian features smooth, unruffled by worry. His easy, relaxed posture spoke volumes of a man who had never known fear.

He lifted his glass in greeting, the edges of his lips twisting into a smirk as the duo approached.

"Ah, the prince and princess of the Crete," he said, his voice as smooth as silk. "And with a package from the King, no less."

Leila kept her face stoic, the pleasantry meaning absolutely nothing to her.

Stefanos stepped forward, setting the briefcase on the table between them.

Salvatore breathed in through his nose, twirling his drink before angling it towards them. "You see, I have a certain. distrust when it comes to deliveries. Let's call it a personal quirk."

In a careless flick of his wrist, two men stepped forward, grabbing Stefanos by the arms. Stefanos didn't resist. He submitted to their hold, his body stiff and unyielding, but there was a brief glance he gave Leila. The glance had been a wordless warning that she was on her own from then on.

Leila's heart didn't beat any faster, her face betrayed no emotions either. She did not blink, did not move, did not even shift her weight imperceptibly.

Salvatore watched her closely, his mouth curling up into a smile.

"Non è personale, è solo affari." (It's nothing personal, just business.) His tone was trained, smooth. The kind of tone that had misled many previous to her to think he was a gentleman.

Leila's jaw muscles flexed a notch tight, but she remained silent.

"I'm liking you so far, bella," Salvatore continued, eyeing her with something that could be read as either curiosity or respect. "No sign of protest whatsoever. Not even the slightest flicker of emotion."

She tilted her head slightly. "Would protesting change anything?"

He adjusted in the chair, his smile broadening. "You're cold."

Leila looked at him, thinking he had no idea what cold really was. "Check the package."

Salvatore grinned. "Cutting to the chase, I see. I like that."