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4 Years Ago, Catskill Mountains, West Shokan, New York

Rule Number One... Everything is a lie

The stiletto knife kisses the inside of my thigh as I slide into the back of the town car—just in case. A girl’s gotta have a backup plan, and well… I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

The driver doesn’t look at me—doesn’t need to. I’m just another package, wrapped in silk and secrets, en route to the highest bidder to a night I can’t take back.

“Last chance to back out, Alessa.” My father’s voice trembles through the phone—a ghost of the man he used to be. “We can still… run.”

Run. As if that’s ever been an option. Like the men who own him would just shrug and let us disappear.

“It’s fine, Dad. Just one night.” The lie is effortless. A neat little bow on a ticking time bomb. “Come on, I’m almost twenty-three… I think I can handle it.”

His breathing’s ragged, worn. “I tried to keep you out of this life, Alessandra—swore to your mother I would.”

I roll my eyes, knowing there’s no point in telling him what I really think. I used to believe his late nights and whispered deals meant power. Now, I know better.

Power doesn’t bow down or beg—and power definitely doesn’t send its own daughter, decorated like a goddamn Christmas tree, into a room full of men who won’t take no for an answer.

“I know, Dad, we’ll get through this.” But neither of us believes it.

All these years he’s managed to shield me from the dark underbelly of New York. He navigates daily as Captain Michael Russo, a name adopted from my mother’s side of the family. Twelve years of pretending his badge wasn’t tarnished, that his hands weren’t dirty. Now his protection’s become my prison.

The mansion appears through the tinted windows, carved into the Catskills like a predator’s den. Beyond those walls, Manhattan’s elite shed their inhibitions, while girls like me shed our choice—all because fathers like mine made deals with devils they couldn’t outsmart.

But I have my own plans tonight. The press badge hidden beneath my silk dress burns against my skin. Fresh out of journalism school, hungry for the story that will launch my career. The Crimson Gala... Where Debauchery Meets Affluence. The article that will expose it all. I tell myself I’m here for the truth—the power plays—the secrets whispered behind gilded masks. But truth has a nasty habit of spilling like over poured champagne. And God help me, I just hope my father’s name isn’t on the list.

He thinks the auction’s my price for cleaning up his mess. I see it as my ticket to something bigger. The car comes to a stop. The driver finally breaks his silence.

“They’re expecting you.”I’m ushered to a room where two dozen women are being “prepared.” The air reeks of expensive perfume and quiet desperation.

“Arms up,” a woman orders, sliding an emerald dress over my head. The silk weighs nothing, costs everything. “You clean up nice,” she observes clinically. “Good bone structure, like your mother.”

My heart quickens. “You knew my mother?” Her hand stills on the velvet case. A flicker of recognition, maybe. Or fear. But just as quickly, it’s gone. “I remember a woman,” she murmurs, lifting a gold-trimmed mask. “It had to be almost twelve years ago. Same eyes. Same fire.” She turns, holding the mask out to me. “But fire burns out.”

Around me, girls giggle nervously. Trust fund babies, models, daughters of diplomats—all thinking they’ve been invited to an exclusive charity gala. As if they don’t know there’s a price tag on their heads. “Gold, huh?” A blonde next to me adjusts her silver-trimmed mask. “Lucky you.” “What do you mean?”

She just laughs, dabbing perfume on her neck. “Nothing. Just looks expensive.” I smile back, but something about her tone makes me uneasy. Like there’s something more.

“Ladies.” Steel-gray hair, perfect teeth. He fills the doorway. “Final instructions.” The room falls silent. Staff herd us into line like expensive cattle.

A black marble hallway stretches ahead, mirrors multiplying our reflections forever. “Masks on. Chins up. Shoulders back,” barks the woman, her dead eyes scan us—Clipboard clutched to her chest.I secure the gold-trimmed mask. Around me, two dozen women become anonymous merchandise. A camera glides along the ceiling, red light winking like it knows something we don’t. “Digital viewing starts in ten,” Steel-Hair says, tapping his tablet. “Tonight’s charity donations hinge on your appeal. Each of you represents a different foundation. Make them want to be... generous.”

The story unfolding around me is bigger than any headline I’ve chased—elite criminals laundering money through fake charities while shopping for women like luxury handbags.

My turn. Heels click against marble, echoing like a countdown. Somewhere behind velvet doors, men with offshore accounts and imported scotch are clicking, ‘ add to cart .’ “Bidding closed,” Steel-Hair mutters to the woman. “Gold mask exceeded expectations.”

I catch the tail end: “three million for The Sanctum of Grace.” The woman who recognized my mother, gives me a wry smirk.

We reassemble, and Steel-Hair.’s plastered-on smile makes me want to shower for a week. “Excellent work, ladies. The patrons have made their selections.” He checks his tablet like it’s scripture.

“Tonight’s about natural connection—your buyers will approach throughout the evening.” His lips curl into something that’s supposed to resemble warmth but lands somewhere between predatory and clinical. Natural connection…yeah, right.

His gaze sweeps the room, lingering a beat too long on me. “Remember—the most powerful men in the world are behind those doors.

Discretion is everything. Whatever happens tonight stays behind these walls,” he adds. “And ladies?” His tone drops. “Once inside, the doors lock—no leaving until sunrise. For your protection, of course.”

My fingers brush the knife strapped to my thigh. Some lessons die hard—like the ones my mother taught me before she died.

The ballroom opens before us like the mouth of a beast. Chandeliers drip light over marble and mahogany. Men in masks watch from the shadows, their gazes calculating. Appraising.

One story. One headline. One night to tear it all down.

I scan the room, calculating my odds. Masked men circling like sharks. The pit of my stomach tightens as I catch one in a silver mask watching me, nodding to the coordinator—shit, that might be him. My buyer. The thought makes my skin crawl.

The dance floor is a trap—too exposed, too easy to be cornered. I need a space where I can still observe everything, where whoever purchased me will have to approach me head on.

I head straight for the bar, pressing myself between two groups of Wall Street types, too busy comparing yachts to notice me. A perfect spot—my back to the wall, full view of the room, crowd between me and whatever entitled bastard thinks I’m his for the taking tonight.

Keep your shoulders back, Alessa. Stay cool. Let them think you’re just another society girl, coached and polished for the evening’s entertainment.

“Bourbon,” I tell the bartender, voice steady despite the hammering in my chest. “On the rocks.”

Then I feel it.

A heavy, assessing gaze. I don’t turn right away. Instead, I lift my bourbon to my lips, willing my pulse to slow. When I finally glance to my left, he’s watching me like he knows exactly what I am. And worse—like he knows I don’t belong here.

Dark suit. Ruby-red mask. A cigarillo burning lazily between tattooed fingers. His smirk is slow and knowing, like he’s seen a hundred girls like me come through these doors and already knows how this ends.

He exhales a curl of smoke, eyes flicking to my untouched drink. “A word of advice, piccola . The hard liquor here burns.”

His voice—smooth and deep like aged whiskey—slides over my skin with the kind of effortless command that makes people listen. Makes them obey.

I raise an eyebrow, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “Maybe I like the burn.”

His smirk widens. “No. You like the idea of it.”

The way he says it—so damn certain—makes something sharp coil in my chest.

Don’t engage. Get your story and get out.

But the bourbon is warm, and my pulse is thrumming in my ears—and if I walk away now, he wins whatever game we’re suddenly playing. Plus, there’s something about him—the tattoos, the confidence, the way he stands apart from the other guys here—that screams headline material.

The kind of source you don’t find twice.

I tilt my head, giving him the same once-over he gave me. “Let me guess. You’re here looking for love?”

He laughs. “Love? In this den of vipers? Fuck no,” he leans in just enough for me to catch the scent of tobacco mingled with something dark and woody that makes my pulse quicken.

“I come to watch the show.”

“The show?”

“You watch long enough, you’ll catch it—threats dressed up as flirting, deals sealed with a look, men signing their death warrant with one wrong touch.” He smirks, low and cold. “And that’s before the real show starts.”

I swallow, keeping my expression neutral. “The real show?”

His lips curl into a smirk. “You’ll see.”

I should finish my drink, get my quote, and disappear. But there’s something in his gaze that makes my skin prickle—like he already knows exactly who I am, and he’s waiting for me to admit it.

I set my bourbon down, my fingers steady despite the heat rising in my chest. “And *who,* exactly, are you?”

He exhales another slow drag of smoke. “Someone you should stay far away from.”

He shifts just enough for the low light to catch the faint scar along his jaw—old, well-earned, the kind that comes from a blade and not an accident. He doesn’t bother hiding it—wearing his pasts in plain sight, daring me to ask. I roll my eyes.

“Wow. Original. Let me guess—you’re the dark and dangerous type? The kind I should be terrified of but just can’t seem to resist?” His gaze dips, slow and deliberate, before dragging back up to mine.

The way he looks at me—like he’s already decided exactly what he wants to do with me—makes my stomach tighten.

I fight the urge to step back. “You’re a little brat…aren’t you?” he says, voice dropping lower.

“And you’re a judgemental asshole.” I match his intensity, refusing to be intimidated.

He leans in closer, close enough that I can smell the expensive cologne beneath the cigar smoke. “You’re going to end up in someone’s bed tonight either drugged or dead,” he mutters.

My journalist instincts flare to life. “They kill people here?” This is it…the juicy bits I need to ace this article. His expression darkens. “It’s not like it’s going to be the first time it’s happened here. If you do end up dead, I hope no one’s gonna’ miss you.”

I should be running for the exit. Instead, I find myself leaning slightly toward him, drawn to the danger like a moth to flame.

He studies me for a moment, taking a long drag of his cigarillo before tapping the ash into a nearby tray.

“Something tells me you’re not very good at following advice, piccola .” His accent caresses the Italian word, making it sound like an intimate secret between us.

“Don’t call me that.” I hate how my voice lacks conviction.

“What should I call you then?” He leans closer, invading my space with a confidence that says he’s used to getting answers.

I hesitate, curiosity battling against my better judgment. “Alessa,” I breathe, knowing it’s a mistake even as I say it.

“Alessa,” he tastes my name like fine wine, I’m Dom.”

“Just Dom?” I ask, trying to regain some control over the conversation. His smile turns enigmatic. “For tonight.”

“What gave it away?”

He taps ash from his cigarillo, watching me with something dangerously close to amusement. “The fact that you haven’t run yet.”

And that’s the moment I realize—he’s testing me.

He’s waiting to see how long I last before I break, before I run back to whatever safe, sensible world he thinks I come from. I should step away right now. Stick to the plan and just get it over with.

When he lifts his glass, waiting, something reckless stirs in my blood.

Just one drink. Just one conversation. What’s the worst that could happen?

I lift my bourbon, meeting his eyes. His fingers brush my wrist as he plucks my glass from my hand—not tight, but firm enough to tell me he’s used to people obeying him. He studies my drink, then me, and sets it aside without asking. Like he already knows I’ll let him.

“Want to get out of here?” His voice’s dark and velvety. Before I can answer, he leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “You know what I see, Alessa? A woman pretending to be something she’s not.”

My spine stiffens. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

I should say no.

The words hang in the air, but the truth is, going with Dom gives me the perfect out—ditch this auction circus and follow a lead that actually intrigues me.

“I know enough.” His finger traces the rim of my glass. “I know you’re not some shy little girl who wandered in here by mistake. And those eyes of yours are cataloging every detail, storing it for later.”

A chill races through me. “That’s quite the imagination.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

His voice drops low, as his hand slides slowly across the bar top, just grazing my wrist.

“Tell me you’re not curious about what happens behind closed doors with a guy like me.”

Dad’s voice in my head warning me to stay away from the life he tried to shield me from.

What the hell am I thinking?

I’m here for the damn story, not to get tangled up with the exact type I’m supposed to be exposing.

Fuck... I don’t know...

Maybe he’s the real story here. I glance back to where Silver Mask is now heading in my direction.

My heart pounds as I lift my chin, unable to tell anymore where the journalist ends and the woman begins.

Breathe, Alessa...

“Lead the way.”

The walk to his suite is an exercise in restraint. Each step in my heels clicks through the marble halls, an unspoken countdown to a moment I can’t take back.

The current between us hums, thick with unsaid promises, pulling me in. His hand rests lightly at the small of my back, thumb occasionally brushing the bare skin exposed by my dress. An innocent touch made sinful by its deliberate placement. I hesitate for just a fraction of a second, my pace slowing.

“Second thoughts?” he asks as we reach the elevator, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

“Just calculating risks,” I reply, keeping my eyes forward.

His chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Smart girl. Though I think we both know you made your decision the moment you sat at that bar.”

The elevator doors slide closed, sealing us in. The air thickens between us.

“Tell me something true about yourself, Alessa.” I raise an eyebrow, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “One thing that isn’t a lie.”

“You mean something that won’t get me in trouble?”

He smirks. “Try me.”

I exhale, shifting uncomfortably. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“That,” he murmurs, “I believe.” His finger traces the curve of my shoulder, goosebumps following in its wake. “Your turn to ask.”

“Why me?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

The elevator doors open, saving him from answering.

At the top floor, reality tightens its grip. Dom leads me down the hall, his stride unhurried, unlocks the door at the end of the corridor, and steps inside first. He doesn’t turn to check if I’ll follow. He already knows I will.

The door clicks shut behind me. Final.

“Last chance.” His voice is smooth, but beneath it lurks something darker. “Once that mask comes off, there’s no going back.”

The weight of the moment presses into my spine. My fingers find the silk ribbons at my temple. The mask slips away—the gold catching the light before disappearing into the dark.

Dom turns, and the hunger in his eyes steals my breath.

“Who says I want to go back?”

Slowly, he removes his own mask, and the second his eyes meet mine, my breath snags.

He’s beautiful in the way Renaissance painters imagined Lucifer—sharp angles, dangerous perfection. A face meant to be worshiped and feared.

“Surprised?” His smirk is slow, indulgent.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“No?” He steps closer, measured, predatory. “What did you expect?”

“Someone…” My back meets the wall, breath uneven. “Older. Less—”

“Less what?” His hand braces beside my head, caging me in. I hesitate, pulse hammering. “Less…danger-”

His mouth claims mine, knocking the breath out of me before I finish answering—hot, hungry, unstoppable. I gasp, and he takes full advantage, sliding his tongue deep, tasting, teasing, taking. All heat and demand, until I’m melting into him, lost in the way he devours me—like he’ll never get enough.

I press closer, chasing every possessive stroke of his tongue, leaving me breathless, trembling—aching for more.

“Wait,” I manage, breaking away just enough to breathe. He lets me go. Barely. His fingers trail down my arm, a featherlight contrast to the restraint in his posture.

“Cold feet?” he taunts, but his voice is hoarse.

I shake my head, even as heat coils low in my stomach. “No. Just…” I swallow. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re deciding whether to devour or destroy me.”

His thumb brushes my bottom lip, his touch lingering just a moment too long. A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “Who says I can’t do both?”

His finger slips beneath the strap of my dress, dragging it slowly down my shoulder. The silk slides to the floor in a whisper, pooling at my feet. He doesn’t flinch—he just watches, dark and unreadable, like he’s memorizing the moment before he wrecks it.

His gaze drags over the dip of my waist, the curve of my thighs—parts of me that have always felt like too much in the wrong hands. He moves with infuriating patience….he doesn’t rush—just makes me want to give.

My hands shake as I push his shirt open, revealing inked skin and scars that tell stories he doesn’t. His chest is broad, muscles stretching across with a raw power that makes my mouth go dry.

I slide my fingers to his belt, tugging it open—the sound of the buckle makes my heart skip.The tension thick between us as I drag his zipper down slowly and push his pants over his hips.

His cock springs free.

Geezuz… My heart stops—body freezing as I take in how huge he is—thick, long, and curved—begging for attention. I swallow hard, feeling a pulse of heat low in my stomach.

“See something you like Piccola ?” he says, curling his lips.

“You’ll do.” I tease, flicking my eyes at him as the back of my knees hit the bed.

Truth—I’m scared…this isn’t college-boy territory.

“Nine inches,” he murmurs, his chuckle dark and knowing. His hand slides across my jaw, slow and deliberate.

“Don’t worry, piccola. That sweet little fica’s gonna beg for me before I’m done with you.”

His thumb brushes my lower lip, lingering for a beat, before trailing down my stomach, teasing, testing.

I shiver, a jolt of heat shooting straight to my core.

And then he stops.

Just… stops.

A cruel smirk. “What’s wrong? You wanted dangerous.”

A sharp pulse of frustration lances through me. I reach for his cock, but he grabs my wrist, pushing it back to the bed.

“Not yet.” His breath against my throat. “Not until I decide.”

Heat flashes through me.

“You’re a bastard, aren’t you?” His laugh ghosts over my skin.

“And you’re still in my bed.”

His mouth finds mine again, slower this time—a punishment and a promise. When he finally gives in, it’s too much and not enough. Every drag of his body against mine is deliberate torture—his thickness teasing my opening, pressing and writhing against my clit, keeping me on the edge until I’m soaked and trembling.

“Alessa…I don’t just want to feel you—I want to own every trembling inch of you—ruin you for anyone else.”

He leans down, his hands gripping my thighs and spreading me wide, giving him the perfect view. Dom’s fingers drag along my pussy—squelching, teasing, and circling my entrance.

I shiver, tightening in anticipation as his touch grows firmer, coaxing me open just enough to prepare me for what’s coming. He pumps his middle finger in my center, causing my pussy to contract around him. My breathy mewls echo off the walls.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters, his voice rough, sending a thrill through me. His thumb presses against my clit, rubbing in slow, torturous circles, pulling desperate moans from me as I push my hips toward him, trying to take more.

He slides a second finger in—working me— the pressure making me gasp. Every move measured. He pulls his fingers free, giving me a moment to breathe before he hovers above me, his thick length pressing against me. “No more waiting.” His voice scrapes low—gritted, breathless.

He leans down, his hands gripping my thighs and spreading me wide, giving him the perfect view. Dom’s fingers drag along my pussy—squelching, teasing, and circling my entrance. I shiver, tightening in anticipation as his touch grows firmer, coaxing me open just enough to prepare me for what’s coming. He pumps his middle finger in my center, causing my pussy to contract around him.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters, his voice rough, sending a thrill through me. His thumb presses against my clit, rubbing in slow, torturous circles, pulling desperate moans from me as I push my hips toward him, trying to take more.

He slides in a second finger—working me— the pressure making me gasp. Every move measured. He pulls his fingers free, giving me a moment to breathe before he hovers above me, his thick length pressing against me. “No more waiting.” His voice scrapes low—gritted, breathless.

Dom suddenly flips me over like I don’t weigh anything…like thick thighs and soft curves are exactly what he wants. He doesn’t hide his appreciation—digging his fingers into my hips, hands gliding over the full curve of my ass—fingers spread wide, claiming every inch like I’m his to worship.

“Keep that pretty ass up for me, piccola. Just like that.” He smacks, feeling how I jiggle under his touch.

I barely have time to adjust before the head of his cock is against my entrance—his thumb brushing over the sensitive spot of my ass, just enough to make my pulse spike.

“Wait... not yet,” I plead, my voice barely a whisper, trembling with want but laced with hesitation. His hands slide over the swell of my ass, thumbs spreading me open just enough to watch me twitch under his touch.

“Fuck, look at you.” Dom groans as his hands grip my waist, pulling my fiery core against him. He pops just the tip inside, making me whimper with need, then pulls back again and again…leaving me aching, desperate for him to take me fully. His control snaps, and then he’s everywhere—wrecking me, owning me. Like he’s been starving for this, for me.

His thrusts make me cry out, my body stretching painfully around his cock as he drives into me without mercy. Forcing me to take all of him—like he’s branding every inch of me.

“This tight pussy’s everything, piccola ” He grips my hair, yanking my head back, exposing my throat, scraping his teeth on my neck before sinking in. “This what you want?”

“Yes, Dom,” I pant, unable to hold it in, my body betraying me as I grow wetter from the delicious sting. He pounds into me at a punishing, deep pace. Each savage thrust hits that perfect spot, stealing my breath. Then, without warning, he flips me back over, and I squeal as his thicklength stretches me wide—my body quivering with each brutal inch as he bottoms out inside me.

“Dom,” I beg, “Please, go slow,” my voice raw and desperate.

Instead of mercy, he pins my wrists above my head with one hand, gripping my jaw with the other. “Look at me…you take what I give you, tesoro, ” he commands, his voice rough and low, vibrating through my bones—forcing me to look at him while he ravages my body. My eyes roll back, and my thighs quake as he ruins every inch of me.

“Ahh!” I gasp, my back arching, toes curling as pain melts into shocking pleasure.

I tighten my legs around his waist, bucking my hips forward—keeping him right where I need him, as I claw his back—leaving trails of red that make him hiss, fucking me harder.

A desperate whimper rips from my throat. Then he moves—rolling his hips just enough to graze that spot inside me. And as if right on time, his cock curves against the backside of my clit—the weight of his body presses into that low ache in my belly—a brutal reminder of who’s in control.

My body trembles, clenching and pulsing as he works me with ruthless precision. I buck my hips wildly, helpless against the onslaught.

“Dom,” I wince. “I’m gonna com—”

“Look at me, I want your eyes on me, piccola. ”

I force my eyes open, and the raw intensity between us pushes me over the edge. My body quakes, a hot rush of liquid spilling over him as I come undone.

“Oh My God…”

Gross.

“Damn, Piccola, ” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “I love this sweet, filthy little pussy—so wet, so fucking perfect for me.” He drives into me, deliberate—fucking me through my orgasm. Every thrust sending wicked pulses of pleasure up my spine, curling at the top of my head, making me dizzy with ecstasy.

He follows, cursing in Italian as his cock jerks, each movement sending jolts through my core. My insides pulse in time with him. Dom’s grip tightens as he shudders, spilling inside me—heat flooding through us.

For a moment, we just breathe…his weight presses into me, warm and grounding, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against my own. My fingers twitch against his damp skin, reluctant to let go, to shatter the fragile stillness between us.

“See what you did to me,” he murmurs, hot against my ear. “I can’t get enough of you, tesoro. ”

I’m still trembling, his cock buried deep inside me, drowning me in sensation.

“You mean what you did to me,” I breathe out, barely able to keep my eyes open.

His lips curl into a lazy grin. “You’re mine now,” he whispers, his voice a low growl before he closes his eyes.

Slowly, his body relaxes—his breath deepening, growing more rhythmic. His grip on me loosens—his muscles go lax, as if he’s sinking into the mattress beneath us. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move—just breathes, lost in the stillness as sleep settles over him. Then, reality creeps back in.

I should leave… try to catch a few last whispers of the night—The kind that end in locked doors and headlines no one dares to print.

I carefully slip from his arms, gathering my scattered dignity along with my dress. That’s when I see it. The carved wooden box on the nightstand lies open, a glint of metal catching my eye.

I shouldn’t look. I should just get dressed, grab whatever story I can, and get out. But something pulls me toward it.

I lift the lid. The silver barrel gleams in the dim light, a Whitney Wolverine, the engraved fleur-de-lis impossible to miss. Initials etched into the metal: I.R. Isabella Russo.

My mother’s gun.

A small card flutters to the floor, embossed with tonight’s date and the Crimson Gala logo. I pick it up, squinting in the darkness.

Lot #7. Gold Mask. Donation The Sanctum of Grace, three million. What the Fuck…my buyer’s receipt.

The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet. Dom. The man I thought I chose. The man I allowed myself to want—bought me before I even stepped into the ballroom.

The questions tumble out faster than I can catch them. How the hell did he get my mother’s gun?

Dom shifts in his sleep, one tattooed arm flung across the space I’ve just vacated.

I tuck the gun into my clutch. My mind races through bits of distant memories—my mother’s secretive phone calls, the nights she’d disappear, her warnings about men with power.

I glance at him one last time before heading out the door. He almost looks innocent, but the truth is an icy whisper against my skin.

No city is big enough to hide from the devil once he knows your name.

And I just gave him mine.