Page 33

It’s becoming a problem.

My obsession with Ares Russo.

It’s not subtle anymore, not something I can ignore or rationalise as a fleeting attraction.

It’s everywhere. In the air I breathe. In the way my skin prickles when I sense he’s near, in the way I ache when he’s not.

He’s in my thoughts when I wake up, in my bloodstream when I sleep.

There’s no escape from him, no hiding from the gravity that keeps pulling me deeper.

It’s a sickness, delicious and all-consuming.

I know how he looks at me. Cold and disapproving. Always watching. But there’s something under that ice-cold exterior, something that burns if I stare long enough. And maybe I’m losing my mind, but sometimes… sometimes I sense that he wants to touch me just as badly as I want him to.

Our exchange in my bedroom the other night has left me on edge. I can’t seem to erase it from my mind. The way he was looking at me, the warmth and firmness of his body pressed against mine, the feel of his breath on my face, against my lips.

Every time he speaks my name, every time he calls me Bambina in that low, rough voice of his, my knees weaken, and my thoughts scatter like ash in the wind. He has no idea what he does to me. Or maybe he does, and that’s the worst part. Maybe he gets off on torturing me.

Because I can’t stop.

Not thinking about him. Not craving the sound of his boots in the hallway. Not replaying the way his eyes drag over me like I’m both a sin and a salvation.

And last night...God, last night I broke my own rules.

The ones I swore I wouldn’t cross.

I was aching. Desperate. His voice reverberating in my head. “... I would’ve had you down on your knees. My cock so deep in your throat, you’d lose the ability to speak for a fucking week.”

Those words, the sound of his voice, had me twisted up in the sheets, trying to breathe through the ache building between my thighs.

I wanted release, but more than that, I wanted him.

I closed my eyes and imagined it was his hand instead of the suction toy I had purchased days before.

His voice in my ear. His body pinning mine down, God, it had me climaxing in less than a minute.

And when I came, I said his name.

Out loud.

Like a confession.

Like a prayer.

I have to stop this, because it’s not right. I should be afraid of him, but I’m not. If anything, it’s the opposite. The dark and mysterious side of him...it thrills me. It stirs something deep in my groin that has me squeezing my thighs whenever he’s near.

Just as I start drifting, my phone vibrates on the small table beside me.

ROCCO.

My stomach dips.

I hesitate, thumb hovering, before swiping to answer. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jordyn. Sorry to call out of the blue, but I need a favour.”

The words make me sit up straighter; all drowsiness chased away by the edge in his voice.

“Sophia’s called in sick, and we’ve got an exclusive VIP event tonight. Big money, big expectations. The client specifically requested you.”

I blink. “Requested me? Why?”

“I don’t ask questions. He liked your vibe. You made an impression. I’ll pay you triple for the shift, and you can keep your tips if you can help me out.”

Triple.

My bank account practically whimpers.

But all I can think about is Ares. His voice, his threats. The heat in his stare when he told me not to go back.

And still, my mouth moves before my brain can stop it. “Text me the details.”

No one tells me what I can and cannot do, least of you, Ares Russo .

Tonight, I’m ordered to dress differently, crafting a version of myself that feels powerful and in control.

Not because Rocco dictated my attire, he didn't utter a single word about what I should wear, but because I needed to assert my autonomy, to determine how I was perceived and how I was touched.

I wanted to enter this space on my own terms, with confidence and independence.

I choose a striking red co-ord ensemble.

The skirt is a daring, form-fitting mini that clings to my curves and ends high on my thighs, accentuating every movement.

The matching crop top is sleeveless and tight, revealing just enough of my midriff to demand attention.

The colour is bold, audacious, making me feel like I could embody those qualities, too.

Instead of the usual stiletto heels, I'm sporting a pair of sleek, sexy black boots crafted by Cavallo Nero, Enzo's esteemed company.

The rich leather hugs my calves snugly, and the polished finish gleams under the light, adding a touch of elegance and allure to my outfit.

As I step into Eden, the atmosphere envelops me, familiar yet intoxicating. The air is thick with the mingling scents of perfume, liquor, and an undercurrent of desire. The bass-heavy music pulses through the walls, each beat resonating with the quickened rhythm of my heart.

Rocco notices me immediately as I enter. His gaze travels down my body, and for the first time, I don't shrink under his scrutiny. “Cristo,” he mutters, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re gonna ruin lives in that outfit, Cara.”

I arch an eyebrow, a playful challenge in my voice. “Isn't that the point?”

He chuckles, already gesturing for me to head down the hallway.

“VIP lounge. Private client. He asked for you specifically. Be sweet, keep his glass full, and don’t linger unless he asks you to.

He’s paying a lot of money to be served by you personally, so keep him happy and I’ll compensate you generously. ”

There’s an edge to his voice that sends a shiver through me, but I nod and proceed. The corridor stretches ahead; each click of my heels echoing louder than seems possible. My fingers brush the plush velvet of the curtain as I push through, my heart pounding in anticipation.

Inside the lounge, the ambiance shifts to one of intimacy and allure. The lighting is dimmer, casting softer, warmer shadows that dance across the room. Conversations murmur quietly around me, accompanied by the gentle clink of glasses and the tinkling of ice, a subtle soundtrack to the scene.

Then, I spot him.

Nicolai Moretti.

Bloody hell. Of course, it’s him.

He’s sprawled languidly in the corner booth as if he owns the very air around him.

One arm draped over the back of the seat, while the other cradles a glass filled with a rich, dark liquid that exudes luxury.

His black shirt is open at the collar, devoid of a tie, and his jacket hangs loosely, an artful blend of ease and deliberation.

His eyes find mine.

And he smiles.

Like he’s been waiting for me all night.

Like he already knows exactly how this evening ends.

I swallow hard and force my steps forward, balancing the tray in my hand. My spine is straight, my expression neutral, but underneath it all, my nerves are dancing like sparks near gasoline.

When I reach the table, I notice the lines of white powder laid out neatly in front of him on the reflective black glass.

Coke.

Bold. Brazen. Like he doesn’t give a damn who sees it.

He doesn’t. Men like him never do.

Because he owns the night.

“Jordyn,” he says, his voice like smoke and silk. “Vieni. Siediti, stellina.” Come. Sit, little star.

I offer a polite smile and shake my head. “I can’t, just here to serve the drinks.”

His grin deepens, and it makes my skin crawl.

“You’re here to serve me tonight, and I’m asking you to pour yourself a drink and come sit.”

Keep him happy, Jordyn.

I pour the scotch slowly, deliberately, ignoring the way his eyes trace the movement of my hand, the curve of my arm, the line of my collarbone. He watches me like he’s imagining things I don’t want to picture. Like he’s already undressed me in his mind and decided what I’ll sound like when I beg.

My stomach knots. This isn’t like the other shifts. Tonight, something feels... off .

I steady the bottle and take a step back. My hands are steady, but it’s taking everything I have to keep the chill off my skin.

Because this man doesn’t just look at me like I’m something he wants...he’s looking at me like I’m already his.

He pats the seat beside him.

“Come on, stellina. Don’t make me beg. You’re the main attraction tonight, and I hate drinking alone.”

I hesitate. Just for a second. But it’s enough for him to reach for my wrist and tug me gently into the booth.

I sit, stiff, careful to keep a few inches between us, but it doesn’t matter. He leans in anyway, his cologne hitting me like a wall. Spiced. Strong. Designed to overwhelm.

He gestures lazily toward the lines on the table. “You ever tried it?”

I shake my head. “Not really my thing.”

“Pity. It sharpens everything.”

His fingers trail along the rim of his glass. I can feel his gaze crawling over my skin like smoke seeping into fabric.

“Relax, stellina.” he drawls smoothly. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

I force a smile, but inside I’m already counting down the minutes until I can leave this room.

Because tonight, just like Ares warned me...I’ve walked straight into the lion’s den. And Nicolai Moretti? He’s already baring his teeth.

There’s a razor-edge to his stare, all calculation and control, then lifts a finger with an air of authority.

It’s a silent command that speaks volumes.

Within moments, the other patrons and staff are discreetly ushered out by his men, leaving a ghostly silence in their wake.

Now it’s just us, alone in this intimate setting.

The atmosphere shifts dramatically as the curtain falls shut, sealing us in. The air becomes denser, charged with a sense of anticipation and secrecy. Loaded with unspoken tension.

Nicolai remains silent at first, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that feels like it’s peeling away every layer of composure I’ve painstakingly assembled since stepping into this room. His eyes are dark, enigmatic, as though they hold secrets I can’t begin to fathom.