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CHAPTER EIGHT
Nico
I pace the length of my private VIP lounge, a caged predator finally unleashed, though no suitable prey is immediately apparent within these four walls. The club is alive beneath me, bass throbbing through the floorboards like a second heartbeat, a familiar rhythm that usually soothes the savage beast. Tonight, it merely amplifies the electric tension humming through me.
The past two days have been a crucible of focused intensity, dedicated solely to executing a delicate directive from my uncle, Alessandro. The old patriarch doesn’t make requests lightly, and navigating the intricate power dynamics involved requires absolute discretion, the kind that precludes even the most observant shadow. It is done now, concluded successfully, another knot tied securely in the complex web of influence the Varela family maintains. But settling accounts for Alessandro, while necessary, hasn’t sated the restless energy coiling deep within me. Power demands control, and control requires sacrifice, but the residual static of the operation leaves a sharp, primal itch that demands a different kind of release. Whiskey isn’t touching it.
Marco enters, silent as ever, offering a brief nod that confirms the final loose ends from Alessandro’s business are tied off. He then shifts focus, his expression neutral as he consults his phone. “Ms. Song arrived promptly when summoned, Boss,” he reports, his tone flat, betraying nothing. “She’s downstairs at the main bar. Observing.”
Promptly. Good. She followed orders after her two-day dismissal, returning to the fold the moment the leash was tugged. I like it. That outward compliance is crucial, even if I suspect a storm of conflicting thoughts likely rages beneath her composed surface. Marco continues, “She’s already been taking extensive notes on staff interactions with customers. She’s thorough.”
Thorough. Yes, Lea Song approaches everything with that same intense focus: her research, her questions, the way her dark eyes track movements across a room, cataloging details others would miss. I saw it during the lunch two days prior, even after the clarification with Abernathy. I’ve watched her mind work, quick and ruthless in its pursuit of truth, a quality I both respect and intend to leverage fully.
And then there’s the other quality she possesses, the one that has flickered insistently at the edge of my thoughts even while handling Alessandro’s sensitive affairs. The flush that crawls up her neck when our gazes lock for too long. The subtle catch in her breath when I step into her personal space. The defiance in her posture that can’t quite disguise her body’s unwilling response to my proximity.
She wants me. She hates that she wants me. And that delicious conflict makes her infinitely more intriguing than the countless women who make their availability painfully obvious.
Taking her now would be simple. A word, a look, a touch, and she would follow me to my private rooms upstairs, her body betraying her principles even as her mind rebels. The animalistic urge to do just that claws at me now, sharper than usual after the constraints of the past two days. But Lea Song is not a fleeting distraction to be consumed and discarded. She’s an investment. A strategic piece to be carefully positioned before I make my ultimate move. Patience is required. Discipline.
My body, however, has different requirements tonight. Fortunately, there are other, more immediate options for visceral relief.
I check my watch. “Nine-fifteen,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “Time for something more entertaining.”
Marco adjusts his stance, his face impassive. He’s been with me long enough to understand that my appetites, like my business dealings, follow patterns only I fully comprehend, especially after concluding high pressure family matters.
“Tell Vivian I want to see her,” I say, moving to the private bar and pouring myself two fingers of Macallan 25. The amber liquid does little to soothe the underlying thrum. “And have someone bring Ms. Song up here. She might find this educational.”
Marco nods once and disappears, silent as always. That silence, that unquestioning loyalty, is why he’s survived beside me for over a decade in a world where loyalty is as rare as genuine innocence.
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, enjoying the heat as it runs down my throat. The whiskey is excellent, deep and complex, satisfying on multiple levels. Like power. Like control. Like, the look in Lea’s eyes when I push her just beyond her comfort zone.
Vivian arrives first, elegant in a black dress that accentuates her curves while projecting professional competence. As my events coordinator, she handles the more exclusive entertainments Purgatorio offers to its most elite clientele. Private gambling. Exclusive performers. Discreet encounters that never appear on any official schedule.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Varela?” Her voice is smooth, confident. Another quality I value in those who serve me; the absence of unnecessary fear. Respect, yes. Caution, always. But never the paralyzing terror that leads to mistakes.
“The Velvet Room,” I say, setting down my glass. “Is it available tonight?”
A flash of understanding crosses her features. “Yes, sir. It’s been prepared for tomorrow’s private event, but we can have it ready within twenty minutes if you’d prefer to use it this evening.”
“I would. Arrange for the Martinez duo. The full demonstration, not the abbreviated version.” I pause, considering. “And make sure they understand this is an audition for potential future bookings. I expect their best work.”
Vivian nods, already tapping on her tablet. “Of course. Will you be bringing guests, or is this a private viewing?”
“One guest.” I smile slightly, picturing Lea’s reaction to what I’ve planned. “A potential business partner who needs to understand the full range of Purgatorio’s offerings.”
Another nod, no questions. That’s why Vivian earns twice what most club managers make. She executes without unnecessary inquiry. “Twenty minutes, then. I’ll have someone escort you when everything’s ready.”
She leaves just as Marco returns with Lea in tow. The contrast between the two women is striking. Vivian’s polished, practiced allure against Lea’s raw intensity. Both are beautiful, but where Vivian offers clinical charm, Lea radiates an energy that’s far more potent, especially now. Seeing her again after two days crystallizes the restlessness I’ve felt. My focus snaps solely to her. The forced distance hasn’t diluted her impact; if anything, it’s underscored the unique friction her presence creates in my space.
Lea eyes me warily as she enters, her gaze sweeping the room before settling on me. She’s dressed more formally tonight than in our previous encounters. Black trousers that trace the line of her curves just enough to be tantalizing without being obvious, a silky emerald blouse that brings out the hidden flecks of gold in her dark eyes. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, emphasizing the elegant line of her neck.
I imagine wrapping that ponytail around my fist, using it to tilt her head back, exposing her throat to my mouth. The image sends a fresh wave of heat through my body, a low thrum that confirms the tension the brief separation did nothing to quell, perhaps even honed it.
“Ms. Song,” I greet her, my voice smooth, gesturing to the sofa across from where I stand.
She remains standing, her usual wariness perhaps edged with something else now, a flicker of the same charged awareness I feel after the silence between us. “My observations were rather solitary for the past two days, Mr. Varela,” she states, her tone neutral but direct. “You mentioned sensitive negotiations requiring your sole attention. I trust they concluded satisfactorily?”
There it is. The probe cloaked in professional courtesy. She hasn’t forgotten being dismissed, and she wants answers.
“Always focused on the business at hand, Ms. Song. Admirable.” A faint smile touches my lips as I hold her gaze. “My affairs concluded as planned.” I offer nothing more on the subject, deliberately closing that door. “But tonight isn’t about past negotiations. It’s about future prospects. And your perspective.”
Her eyes narrow, assessing my deflection. “My perspective?” she repeats, a note of skepticism entering her voice. “Interesting. I’m beginning to think the actual story happens up here, anyway, not down on the main floor.”
I smile, appreciating her refusal to be easily sidetracked. “Perceptive as always. Which is why I’ve arranged something special for this evening.” I move closer, invading her personal space. I relish the subtle signs of her control warring with her reaction to my proximity after the break: not backing away. Lea Song is too proud for retreat, but there’s a definite tightening in her shoulders, a quickening of her breath beneath the emerald silk, a defiant lift of her chin that doesn’t quite mask the awareness sparking in her eyes. She feels it too, this sudden intensity after the quiet. “Purgatorio caters to a wide range of appetites, Ms. Song. Some are more specialized than others.”
Her eyes narrow further, suspicion replacing the fleeting spark of awareness. “Meaning?”
“We’re considering adding a new act to our private entertainment roster.” I keep my tone level, the detached businessman seeking a consultation. “I’d value your perspective on its market appeal.”
She doesn’t believe my professional facade for a second; I see it in the skeptical arch of her eyebrow. But I also see the competing flicker in her eyes. The journalist’s hunger outweighing caution and curiosity beginning to win. “What kind of act?”
I’m saved from elaborating by one of Vivian’s assistants, a young woman in the club’s signature black uniform, appearing at the doorway. “Mr. Varela, the Velvet Room is ready.”
“Excellent.” I extend my hand toward the door, not quite touching Lea, but close enough that she can surely feel the heat radiating from my palm, heat that feels amplified just by having her near again. “Shall we, Ms. Song? I believe you’ll find this interesting for your article. A glimpse into the more exclusive side of nightlife entertainment.”
She hesitates for only a fraction of a second, her mind clearly racing, suspicion battling her journalistic instinct to leave no stone unturned. The desire for the story, for the truth behind the polished surface, wins out. “Lead the way,” she finally says, her voice betraying nothing of the conflict I know she’s experiencing.
The Velvet Room is tucked away in a secluded corner of Purgatorio’s upper level, accessible only through a discrete corridor monitored by my most trusted security personnel. As its name suggests, the walls are lined with deep red velvet, absorbing sound and creating an atmosphere of hushed intimacy. The lighting is subdued, just enough to see, not enough to feel exposed. The air is thick with the faint scent of expensive perfume and something else, something warmer, almost musky.
At the center of the room is a small stage, elevated only slightly above floor level. Surrounding it are plush armchairs and sofas, providing optimal viewing while maintaining privacy. Tonight, only one seating area is prepared, a sumptuous black couch positioned in front of the stage.
I guide Lea to the couch, gesturing for her to sit. She does so cautiously; her gaze taking in every detail of the room with that sharp journalist’s focus. I settle beside her, close enough that I can detect the subtle scent of her perfume, something with notes of jasmine and amber, sensual without being overpowering. It suits her.
“This room hosts our more specialized entertainments,” I explain, keeping my tone conversational. “By invitation only, naturally.”
“Naturally,” she repeats, her voice dry. “And what exactly are we about to see, Mr. Varela?”
I smile, leaning back against the soft leather. “A demonstration of the more refined aspects of dominance and submission. Professionally performed by experts, of course.”
Her posture stiffens almost imperceptibly. “BDSM? That’s the ‘specialized entertainment’ you’re considering adding to your club’s offerings?”
“In select contexts, for discerning clients.” I observe her reaction. “You seem surprised. I would have thought a journalist of your caliber would be acquainted with the prevalence of such interests among the powerful.”
A flash of irritation crosses her features before she masters it. “I’m familiar with the concept, Mr. Varela. I’m just surprised you’d include this in my ‘education’.”
“All aspects of power apply to understanding my world, Ms. Song. It’s what made me who I am. Power and domination.” I signal to the attendant hovering by the door. “Including the most intimate expressions of it.”
The room goes darker just as two performers slip onto the stage. They’re the Martinez pair, the latest hot shit in the Midwest BDSM scene. These two don’t just put on a show, they make rope and leather into pure art. Miguel rocks black pants like they’re painted on, his bare chest catching the low light. Elise is decked out in this wicked black harness that wraps around all her best parts, hooked to a collar. Her wrists are already tied up nice and cozy in front of her.
They hit their marks without a word; him standing tall, her on her knees, looking like the perfect sub. The quiet in here is electric.
I sneak a peek at Lea. She’s playing it cool, but her quick breaths and white knuckles gripping the couch tell a different story. She’s not freaked. It’s more like she can’t look away even though she thinks she should.
Miguel circles Elise with a predator’s grace, his fingers mapping her skin like territory to conquer. The way he touches her isn’t cruel; it’s pure power play, a dance where she gives up control and he runs the show. He whispers in her ear and she melts into it, offering herself up like a gift.
Next to me, Lea gulps. Hard.
The show kicks into high gear when Miguel guides Elise to this padded bench center stage. He bends her over it, stretches those arms high, and locks her down tight. Her wrists, ankles, the works. She’s exposed and defenseless, exactly how they both want it.
I split my focus between the kinky theater and Lea’s face. She’s inching forward, mouth open, hypnotized. The reporter in her is taking mental notes, but there’s something else there too. I can see it. A little spark she’s fighting like hell to hide.
Miguel grabs this suede flogger and teases Elise with it first. The way her back arches. Fuck, it’s obscene. Her ass tilted up like an offering as he drags that suede flogger across her skin. Each teasing stroke makes her tremble, her breath hitching in these little gasps that hit me straight to my cock. Then he snaps it, sharp, precise, and her moan cuts through the air, low and needy, her thighs quivering as red blooms across her pale flesh. My cock twitches hard against my trousers, already straining from the sight.
Beside me, Lea’s pretending she’s above it all, but I see through her. Her chest rises a little faster, her fingers digging into the couch like she’s anchoring herself. That flush creeping up her neck. It’s not disgust, no matter how much she wants to play the detached journalist. She’s hooked, eyes glued to Elise’s writhing body as Miguel swaps the flogger for a leather crop. He lands a quick, stinging slap across her ass, and Elise bucks, a cry spilling from her lips that’s pure, unadulterated want. Lea’s lips part just a fraction, but it’s enough. I know that look. She’s imagining it, feeling that sting, even if she’d rather die than admit it. That’s my in, right there, her dirty little secret she doesn’t even know she’s showing me.
I catch the floor manager’s eye with a tilt of my head, voice low. “Bring Loretta.” Lea might hear, might not. It doesn’t matter. I want her to see this next part, to feel the weight of my world while she’s stuck watching. The stage is heating up. Miguel’s got a vibrator in hand now, pressing it against Elise’s clit while she’s still bound, helpless. Her moans turn desperate, hips grinding against the bench as he works her, that buzz mixing with the wet sound of her arousal. My blood’s pounding, every nerve lit up, and I’m half a second from dragging Lea onto my lap and fucking her right here.
Then Loretta slips in, all sleek lines and quiet deference, her black dress outlining a figure built for sin. She doesn’t hesitate, just glides to my side, sinking onto the couch beside me. Her thigh rests a breath away from mine, a silent offering of proximity. She knows the drill. Her attention stays forward, fixed on the performance, but her awareness of me, of my mood, is absolute.
Onstage, Miguel’s barking a command: “Beg for it,” and Elise’s voice breaks, “Please, sir, please,” as he teases her with the vibrator, pulling it back just when she’s about to lose it. My jaw clenches, arousal clawing through me. I shift, making myself more comfortable, adjusting myself.
Lea’s eyes flick over. She caught the movement, and I don’t look away. I hold Lea’s gaze, daring her to react as I rest my hand on Loretta’s thigh. Not kneading, not caressing. Just resting there. A statement of ownership. Loretta doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react at all beyond a slight, almost imperceptible intake of breath. Her stillness only amplifies my control over her.
“You like this, don’t you?” I mutter, voice rough, meant entirely for Lea, though my hand remains on Loretta’s leg. My thumb makes a slow, deliberate circle against the fabric of her dress. Loretta stays perfectly still, a beautiful, breathing prop in the psychological game I’m playing with the woman on my other side. My focus narrows on Lea, the way her eyes are fixed on my hand resting on another woman. My arousal spikes, sharp and visceral, fueled not by Loretta, but by the possessive display, by the control, by the conflict warring in Lea’s dark eyes. I’m picturing Lea under me, naked, pinned, that smart mouth gasping my name while I fuck her raw. She’d fight it at first, all defiance and sharp edges, but she’d break so fucking beautifully, begging me to take her harder, deeper.
Elise’s screams onstage bring me back. She’s coming undone as Miguel growls something filthy, his hand relentless between her thighs. The sound tips me closer to losing control. My cock throbs painfully, demanding release. Loretta shifts almost imperceptibly beside me, aware of my state, but makes no move, awaiting command. And Lea’s right there on the other side, close enough I can smell that jasmine on her skin. I look straight into her wide eyes, imagining destroying her composure piece by piece. She’d hate how much she’d love it, and that’s what’s got me burning, knowing I’ll have her soon, in any way I fucking want.
I’m close, fuck, so close to doing something reckless, when there’s a knock, sharp and unwelcome. One of my guys steps in, voice low. “Boss, warehouse confirmation is in. Moretti’s crew set the meeting.” My chest’s heaving, my hand still resting possessively on Loretta’s thigh, but I nod, forcing control back into my voice. “Good. We’re done here.” I remove my hand from Loretta’s leg as if dismissing an object, not acknowledging her further. She rises and slips away, disappearing with the same quiet discretion she arrived with. I’m left aching, half-feral with need I can’t unleash yet. Business first. Always fucking business.
I stand, straightening my jacket, my body humming with frustrated arousal. The timing is deliberate. Moretti knows what he’s doing, sending this message now. The warehouse meeting has been in discussion for days; confirmation could have come at any time. That it arrives when I’m otherwise occupied is no coincidence. A small power play, testing my responsiveness, my priorities.
Lea rises beside me, her composure visibly strained. The flush in her face, the shaky hands as she gathers her notebook, these small tells betray what she’s trying so hard to hide. I find satisfaction in knowing she’ll lie awake tonight, replaying what she witnessed, what she felt.
“We’re leaving,” I tell her, not a request. My voice still carries the rough edge of arousal, and I make no effort to soften it. Let her hear what she does to me. Let her wonder what might have happened had we not been interrupted.
Elise and Miguel halt their act, their gazes finding mine, awaiting my signal. A single dip of my chin is their dismissal, their cue to undo the bindings. Loretta’s already vanished. That quiet exit is why I keep her around. Maybe I’ll summon her later, have her take the edge off. But not tonight. For now, this throb low in my gut is fuel, honing my concentration for what comes next.
Out in the hall, Lea strides a few paces in front, her walk fast, purposeful, like putting space between us can somehow rebuild the composure I shattered. I let her escape for a moment, my own steps unhurried as I track the stiffness in her back, the way she holds herself so tightly wound.
The club’s main floor is a blur of light and sound as we pass through. My staff recognize my focused expression and give us a wide berth. No one approaches, no one speaks. The crowd parts instinctively, creating a path toward the private elevator that will take us to the garage level where my car waits.
The elevator doors close, encasing us, as the quiet between us prickles. I put myself across from her, leaning a shoulder against the wall, drinking in her profile while she makes a show of watching the floor numbers drop. The confined car fills with her perfume and the undeniable current of thwarted need.
“You’re quiet, Ms. Song,” I observe, my tone casual. “No questions? No observations for your article?”
Her eyes flick to mine, then away. “I’m still processing the experience.”
“Are you?” I smile. “And what conclusions are you reaching?”
The elevator reaches the garage level, doors sliding open with a soft chime. Lea steps out quickly, too quickly, betraying her eagerness to escape the intimate confines we shared. My driver stands beside the waiting car, opening the rear door as we approach.
Lea slides into the back seat, arranging herself as far from the center as possible. A futile gesture. The interior of the Bentley might be spacious, but no physical distance will erase what passed between us in that room. I settle beside her, close enough that she can feel my body heat but not quite touching. A planned intrusion into her space that mirrors what I’m doing to her mind.
“Warehouse Five,” I instruct my driver. “No rush.” The privacy partition rises, sealing us into our own world as the car glides out of the garage and into the night.
For several blocks, we ride in silence. I don’t fill it, content to let her discomfort build, to let her wrestle with the questions she both wants and fears to ask. Her fingers twist in her lap, a rare display of nervous energy from someone who usually maintains such careful control.
Finally, I decide to probe the wound. “So, Ms. Song,” I begin, my voice pitched low, intimate, “did the performance meet your expectations?”
She swallows, a muscle in her jaw tightening. “It was…professionally executed.”
“Indeed.” I shift, angling my body toward hers. “The Martinez duo are among the best in their field. But I wasn’t asking about their technical proficiency.”
Her gaze remains fixed on the city lights sliding past the tinted windows. “What were you asking, then?”
“Whether it stirred anything in you.” I lean closer, invading more of her space. “Whether you recognized something of yourself in Elise’s surrender. Or perhaps in Miguel’s control.”
Now she looks at me, eyes flashing with defiance. “I was observing, Mr. Varela. That’s what journalists do.”
“Was that all you were doing?” I reach for her wrist, my fingers encircling it before she can pull away. Beneath my thumb, her pulse is a frantic, betraying rhythm that contradicts her composed expression. The frantic beat against my skin fuels the ache low in my belly. “You can claim you were just observing, but your heart was racing as much as mine, piccola. Still is. And this kind of racing beat comes not from fear or repulse, but from excitement.”
She tries to jerk her hand away, but I hold firm, not hurting her but making it clear she won’t break my grip unless I allow it. “Let go,” she says, her voice low but steady.
“In a moment.” I stroke my thumb over her wrist, feeling the rush of blood beneath her skin. “First, I want you to admit something to yourself, if not to me. What you saw tonight affected you. Not as a journalist. As a woman.”
Anger flashes in her eyes, but there’s something else there too, a vulnerability she’s desperate to hide. “You’re the one who arranged that whole display. Brought in that woman to…to…”
“To what, Lea?” I press, enjoying her discomfort, the way she can’t bring herself to name what she witnessed. “Say it.”
“To parade her?” she finally spits out, cheeks flushing darker. “To use her like some kind of prop while you watched me watching your disgusting performance? Like I was supposed to be intimidated, or jealous, or whatever sick game you were playing by putting your hands all over her right in front of me?”
I laugh, the sound genuine despite myself. “Is that what you think it was about? Making you jealous?”
“What else would it be about?” she demands.
“Education.” I release her wrist, but don’t move away. “Everything I show you has a purpose, Lea. Every experience, every introduction, every revelation. I’m teaching you to see beyond the surface, beyond the comfortable fictions most people live within.”
She shakes her head, disbelieving. “By demonstrating how you own everyone in the room, touching another woman like she’s furniture while staring me down? That’s not education, it’s a power trip.”
“It’s power.” I state it simply, as the fundamental truth it is. “Power expressed, power exchanged, power recognized. On that stage, between Miguel and Elise. Between Loretta and myself, her submission, my control. And yes, between you and me.”
Her breath catches, just slightly, at this last part. “There is no ‘between you and me,’” she insists, but the declaration lacks conviction.
“No?” I reach out again, this time taking her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her face toward mine. Her skin is warm, soft beneath my touch. “Then why are you still here, Lea? Why do you keep coming back, knowing who and what I am?”
For a moment, I think she might pull away, break contact, retreat into professional detachment. Instead, she holds my gaze, something shifting in her expression. Not surrender, not yet, but a recognition of truth she can no longer deny to herself.
“Because it’s the story,” she says finally. “The biggest story of my career. Most people’s careers.”
“Your career has just begun,” I reminded her. “Is that all it is?”
Before she can answer, the car slows, approaching the industrial wasteland where Warehouse Five stands. The site of tonight’s meeting with Moretti’s crew. Another kind of power play, with stakes far higher than the ones I’ve been exploring with Lea.
“We’re here, sir,” my driver announces through the intercom.
I release Lea’s chin, but my gaze holds hers for one moment longer. “We’ll continue this conversation later,” I promise, my voice dropping. “When we’re not interrupted.”