Page 34

With a languid, deliberate sip of his drink, he leans in closer, his presence both commanding and unnerving.

“You don’t have to be so nervous, Jordyn.

Relax, we’re just going to have a little fun.

I’ve had a very shit week. I need to blow off some steam, and something pretty like you will serve as the perfect distraction.

” He tells me and reaches out to run the back of his finger along my thigh.

When I shrink away from his touch, he smiles.

“Okay, if you don’t want me to touch you...” He trails off, running his tongue along his bottom lip while he gives me a once over. “Dance for me, stellina,” he says, his voice smooth and coaxing.

I blink, my pulse stumbling over itself in confusion. “Excuse me?” I manage to stammer, caught off guard by his unusual request.

His smile widens, a slow, calculated curve of his lips, but it never quite touches his eyes, which remain cold and assessing. “I said dance. There’s music, there’s mood. I want to see how that red looks in motion,” he repeats, his tone velvety yet insistent.

I shake my head slowly, trying to regain some semblance of control. “I’m not a dancer. I’m just a cocktail waitress.” I protest, keeping my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands.

“No,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re so much more than that. Which is why I asked for you. Just one song. Come, pretty girl. Humour me.”

My mouth feels parched, and my hands are clammy with nervousness. My body, however, is already in survival mode, instinctively calculating the safest way out of this unexpectedly charged situation.

I square my shoulders, feeling the tension coil within me. “If you’re looking for a stripper, Mr Moretti, you’re in the wrong place and definitely asking the wrong girl.” My voice is steady, but the atmosphere in the dimly lit room seems to constrict, as if the air itself is holding its breath.

“Am I?” Nicolai's expression remains impassive, yet a threatening glint flickers in his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, calculating. “Fine, if you don’t dance, then how much for the whole night with you?” His words hang in the air, heavy and bold.

I stare at him, my mind reeling in disbelief. Did he seriously just proposition me? Acting on instinct, my hand rises and I slap him hard, the crack reverberates through the intimate confines of the private lounge. “You’re disgusting,” I declare, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

I slide out of the plush booth, my movements brisk and purposeful as I turn to leave, the soft velvet brushing against my legs as I make my hasty exit. But my escape is short-lived.

Nicolai’s men stationed at the door block my path, and I feel his grasp, abrupt and firm as he grabs my arm, the pressure akin to a vise, yanking me backwards with a sudden jerk.

I stumble, colliding into his sturdy chest, my balance thrown by the unexpected turn of events.

His body is as unyielding as a stone wall, and I feel the shock reverberate through me.

Before I can regain my composure and push away from him, his hand clamps firmly around my chin, his intentions unmistakable as he leans in swiftly, aiming to claim my lips with his own.

I twist my face away, a surge of panic igniting in my chest, sparking a visceral fight-or-flight response within me.

“Let go of me!” I shout, my voice echoing in the dimly lit room as I plant my hands on his chest and shove him back with every bit of strength I can muster.

Nicolai stumbles back a couple of steps, his feet scuffling against the polished floor, but he catches himself.

I can see the anger flare in his eyes, a dark fire flickering beneath his cool exterior, and before he takes a step forward, I snatch the bottle of Vodka off the table and hold it up like a weapon, the glass glinting menacingly in the low light.

“Take one more step and I’ll smash your damn skull in, you piece of shit,” I warn, my voice steady with determination.

Nicolai smirks, rubbing his jaw, the flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes despite the tension in the air.

“That’s very cute.” He states, his smirk turns wicked.

“Lucky for you I like my woman feisty.” And then he pulls his jacket back and flashes the gun holstered at his waist. “The more you fight and defy me, the more appealing you become to me, stellina.”

I jerk back abruptly, but Nicolai’s fingers clamp around my wrist with the force of iron shackles.

“You don’t want to do that, stellina,” he murmurs, his voice now stripped of its previous silkiness, leaving only the steely edge behind. “You don’t want to make me look like a fool.”

I tug harder, trying to free myself. “Let go.”

Instead, he pushes me backward forcefully, enough to leave a mark on my arm, with enough pressure to assert his dominance.

“Sit,” he snaps, and I stumble into the velvet bench behind me, the plush fabric swallowing my fall.

My heart pounds violently against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing my rising fear.

Nicolai remains standing, towering over me with an indomitable presence, his eyes gleaming with the kind of entitlement only men like him possess... men who don’t ask. Men who take.

He lifts the glass I poured earlier and extends it toward me, a silent demand in the gesture.

“Drink,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument.

I remain motionless, defiant.

His smile vanishes, all charm burned away, leaving nothing but raw power and venomous intent.

“You’re in here, wearing that little red thing like you wanted to be seen. So drink, Jordyn. Or don’t, just know what happens when you disrespect me.”

My throat tightens, constricting with the threat. I lift the glass, just enough to appease him momentarily, and let the liquid brush my lips, barely a sip.

He nods once, satisfied, and then gestures toward the table where lines of cocaine remain untouched.

He taps one line with a lacquered nail, a singular, deliberate motion.

“Now this,” he says, his voice quieter, almost conspiratorial. “This is where the fun begins. Go on. Just a taste. I promise you will love it.”

My blood runs cold, freezing in my veins. “No.”

“Do it,” he growls, gripping my chin with a vice-like hold and tilting my face up to his. “I don’t like to repeat myself, stellina.”

My jaw clenches, defiance burning in my silence.

He lowers his face closer, his breath hot and acrid with whisky. “Good girls do as they’re told.”

And just as his hand presses harder into my cheek, just as my breath stutters in my chest, I hear it.

“You’ve got exactly three seconds to take your fucking hands off her, Moretti. Or I’ll snap off every finger you own and feed it to you.”

That voice cuts through the tension, calm yet laced with icy menace.

Oh God, Ares.

His voice cuts through the haze like a gunshot. Low, calm and controlled. But so full of venom it turns the blood in my veins to ice.

Nicolai's head jerks up with a snap, and mine follows suit, though more slowly, and filled with disbelief. I feel like I’m seeing things and for a moment. Like I actually believe my mind just conjured him up.

Ares stands at the entrance of the VIP lounge like he’s stepped straight out of a nightmare designed just for men like Nicolai. Dressed in all black, shadow clinging to every sharp line of his frame, he’s more storm than man.

His eyes, for once aren’t on me.

They’re locked on Nicolai. Like a predator who’s just caught the scent of his prey.

Nicolai’s fingers loosen and fall from my chin slowly, like he’s weighing his options. He turns, trying to reclaim whatever power he just lost, but Ares doesn’t give him the chance.

“I said three seconds,” Ares says, stepping further into the room, his boots crushing glass beneath them from a shattered tumbler no one remembers breaking.

“One.”

My breath stalls.

“Two.”

Nicolai’s jaw flexes. “Russo, this is neutral ground?—”

“Three.”

Ares lunges.

There’s no warning. No buildup. Just the sound of impact, flesh meeting flesh, bone cracking beneath the force of it. Nicolai flies backward, slamming against the mirrored wall behind the booth, the glasses on the table shattering as they hit the ground.

I flinch, heart in my throat.

Ares is on him in a breath, his hand around Nicolai’s throat, lifting him half a foot off the floor. His other hand digs into Nicolai’s shoulder like he could rip it clean off if he wanted to.

And judging by the look on his face... he absolutely does.

“You put your hands on her again,” Ares growls, low and lethal, “So much as breathe her fucking name and I’ll carve out your tongue and make you swallow it, inch by inch.”

Nicolai chokes, his hands clawing at Ares’s wrist.

I should speak. I should move. I should stop him.

But I don’t. Because the truth is, in that moment, I’ve never felt safer.

Not with anyone.

Not even myself.

Ares finally drops Nicolai with a shove, and he crumples, coughing, gasping, hand still clutching his throat.

And dismisses Nicolai entirely, as if the man no longer warrants another second of his attention.

The sudden burst of violence, quick, precise and deadly still lingers in the air like settling dust, but his focus is solely on me now.

His eyes are dark and unwavering, convey something intense and undefinable.

And then he approaches me with a measured, intentional stride that never fails to make my heart skip a beat.

His entire body is taut, brimming with tension.

Without a moment’s pause, he grasps my hand, confident and decisive as though it was always his to hold.

The moment our skin meets, his grip tightens with quiet intensity, his fingers threading through mine like they were always meant to be there.

The heat of his palm scorches against mine, anchoring me in a way I hadn’t realised I needed.

He pulls and I move, without hesitation. We move together, step by step, towards the exit of the private lounge.

And then I see them.

Bodies.

Scattered across the plush carpet like discarded puppets.

One man is slumped against the wall, his face bloodied and almost unrecognisable.

Another facedown beside an overturned table.

A third groaning faintly from the floor, cradling his ribs like he’s afraid they’ll crack open if he lets go.

Two more lie unconscious near the entrance, limbs twisted awkwardly, their suits rumpled and stained.

“Oh, my God...” I utter under my breath as I take in the massacre around me.

Glass crunches beneath Ares’s boots as we step over a shattered tumbler. My stomach turns. My breath stills in my throat.

He did this.

Every single one of them left for dead— for me .

Ares doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even glance at the carnage around us. His hand remains locked with mine, his body a fortress of control and quiet fury as we pass through the curtain.

Rocco stands by the bar, white as a sheet, his eyes flitting between the wreckage and Ares like he’s caught in the middle of a nightmare. He opens his mouth, perhaps to protest, or maybe apologise, but one look from Ares silences him instantly. Whatever he was going to say dies unspoken.

We walk through Eden like gods striding off a battlefield, silence rippling in our wake, slicing through the whispers and stares. I keep my gaze fixed ahead, my back straight, but I feel everything. The eyes. The shock. The tension.

And his hand, bloodied and still clutched in mine like a lifeline.

Outside, the crisp night air crashes over me.

I suck in a breath, the chill tightening my chest, but it doesn’t extinguish the inferno burning in my blood.

Because tonight, I didn’t just get a glimpse of who Ares Russo truly is… I saw who he becomes for me .