Chapter 16 - Dominic
The moment I step into the private office, I shut the door without a word. The click echoes through the space, sealing us inside, cutting off the world beyond. Isabella stands near the desk, her dress hugging every curve like it was made for my hands to claim. Her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t speak. Her cheeks are still flushed from her orgasm but I’m about to make her come again.
I loosen my tie with a slow pull, never breaking eye contact. The air is thick with anticipation, humming between us like an electric current. I roll my sleeves up, one by one, methodical, controlled—because control is the only thing keeping me from taking her against that desk right now.
Her breath hitches as I close the space between us. My eyes meeting hers. The scent of her skin, warm and inviting, wraps around me like a drug.
My hands find her hips, pulling her flush against me so she can feel exactly what she does to me. I’m so hard I can barely think straight. A strangled moan slips past her lips, and fuck, I love the sound of it. I press my mouth to hers, swallowing every little noise as I walk her backward. She’s already melting into me, body pliant, but I need more.
Her back hits the edge of the desk, and I lift her onto it effortlessly. My fingers brush the hem of her dress, and in one swift motion, I pull it up, exposing soft skin, smooth thighs, and the lace barely covering her. It’s hard to be gentle right now, but I know we have an auction to attend, and I can’t ruin her dress. But I don’t take it off—I want her like this, undone but not stripped away.
She doesn’t hesitate—her hands are already at my belt, tugging, pulling, desperate. I push her knees apart to make space for myself between them.
"You are so fucking sexy, you know that?" I breathe into her ear, unzipping my pants because I can’t contain myself anymore. She pants against my shoulder, and I turn her head, forcing her to look at me.
"You know that?" I ask again, waiting. I won’t give in until she says it.
"I know," she breathes back, and that’s all I need.
I pull her to the very edge of the desk and plant my length at her entrance. She wraps her legs around my back, pulling me nearer. I inhale the scent of her, letting it go to my head, letting it spin around me and consume me. I can’t get enough of her. I’m not sure I ever will.
Shifting my weight forward, I push all the way inside her, burying myself up to the hilt. She cries out, the shock of feeling me filling her making her head tip back, her body stretching to take me in.
I thrust into her, hard and fast, pressing my forehead to hers so our breath mingles in the space between us. Her eyes burn with pleasure, dark and dazed, and it only drives me further. I wrap my arms around her, pressing my face into her neck, kissing her, grazing my teeth against her skin. She gasps, pulling hard at my hair. I can tell she’s trying not to ruin my suit by grabbing it. Fuck, she’s considerate even when I’m fucking her.
I drive into her harder, each thrust dragging a shudder from her body, a sweet, helpless tremor that tells me she’s lost to this—to me. Her walls clench around me, velvet heat pulling me deeper, her nails biting into my shoulders like she’s holding on for dear life.
“Fuck, Isabella,” I growl, my voice rough with need, uncaring of who might hear. Right now, nothing exists beyond the way she comes apart beneath me.
Her moans rise, breathless and desperate, a symphony of surrender as she trembles, caught in the throes of release. “Dominic… please…” she gasps, her body arching, thighs tightening around my waist as she gives in, helpless against the pleasure crashing through her.
It doesn’t take long before I lose myself too. The pressure, the heat, the way she feels wrapped around me—it’s too much. I groan against her neck, my body tensing as I spill inside her, every pulse of pleasure wracking through me like an earthquake.
We stay there, breathing each other in, locked in the aftershocks. My forehead rests against hers, our bodies still tangled together, the sweat on my brow cooling in the quiet space between us.
When I finally pull back to look at her, her lips are swollen, eyes glazed with satisfaction, and fuck, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
"I’m really fucking falling for you, Isabella," I murmur suddenly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
She doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, she takes my chin, forcing me to look into her eyes. She lightly strokes my lip before kissing them softly and, for now, that’s enough.
***
When I enter Oliver Devereaux’s gallery, I feel it—the shift in energy, the way the atmosphere is charged . The Devereaux Gallery is a temple of indulgence, where wealth and power are displayed as boldly as the paintings on the walls. Sleek black marble floors gleam under the golden glow of chandeliers, each crystal casting refracted light over a crowd that reeks of money and deception. The air buzzes with carefully constructed conversations, hushed tones masking greed and ulterior motives.
This isn’t about art. It never is.
The guests—elite collectors, old-money families, corrupt politicians, and men like me—are here for something more. For power plays. For hushed wars fought through handshakes, glances, and strategically placed bids. They sip champagne, admire the curated collection, but their true focus lies elsewhere. Negotiations are whispered behind glasses of expensive scotch, alliances are reaffirmed with a brush of fingers against silk ties.
Waiters in crisp white shirts weave through the room, trays laden with caviar, oysters, and foie gras. Glasses clink in quiet toasts, but the real game is played in the unspoken words.
I’m used to this. The scrutiny, the attention, the way conversations hush when I pass. People always want something from me—a favor, an alliance, a way to get closer to the fire without getting burned. I register their hungry stares, but I don’t slow down for them. I didn’t come here for whispered deals.
I came here to make a statement.
Isabella is on my arm, wrapped in the red silk dress I chose for her—an intended choice—one that made me lose my mind a few minutes ago. She is striking, bold, and impossible to ignore. The color makes her stand out in a sea of muted elegance, demanding attention even when she wishes to remain invisible. She walks with measured grace, her chin tilted just high enough to feign confidence, but I can feel the rigidness in her body. She knows these people aren’t like the ones she’s used to. They are predators, watching, waiting, assessing.
She doesn’t belong here. But tonight, she will act like she does.
I feel their burning gazes, the way men’s eyes linger too long. Some attempt discretion, their eyes looking away when I catch them, while others don’t bother hiding their interest. My grip tightens around her waist, a silent warning.
She’s mine.
She doesn’t pull away, but I sense her growing awareness. The way she subtly presses closer to me, fingers curling against the fabric of my sleeve, anchoring herself in the chaos.
"You’re doing fine. Just be confident. That’s all these people respect."
She exhales softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t belong here."
I smirk. "Neither do half the people in this room. They just know how to pretend."
Her gaze lifts to me, uncertainty warring with resolve. I see the frustration in her eyes—she doesn’t like not knowing the rules, not having control. But control isn’t given in a place like this. It’s taken.
"Ah, Castellano." A smooth, familiar voice slides into the air, laced with amusement. "You’ve certainly stirred the room tonight."
I turn my head slightly, finding Oliver Devereaux standing nearby, his usual smirk firmly in place.
He’s dressed in a deep navy suit, perfectly tailored to his lean frame, the picture of polished arrogance. But his true mastery isn’t in art—it’s in people. He’s a curator of more than just paintings; he collects power, influence, and the secrets of men who don’t even realize they’ve been played.
He lifts his glass slightly in my direction, a silent toast to the game already in motion.
"People love a good show," I reply, letting my smirk mirror his.
Oliver’s gaze flicks to Isabella, assessing. "And what a show it is."
She stiffens slightly under his scrutiny, but I feel her force herself to hold his stare. Good girl.
"She’s more than that," I say smoothly, my tone leaving no room for argument.
Oliver chuckles but doesn’t push. He enjoys the game, but he knows better than to test me.
I guide Isabella deeper into the room, my eyes already scanning for the ghost I know is here. The gallery is its own kind of battlefield, and every movement, every glance, is a calculated maneuver. The music swirls around us—low, sultry strings mixed with smooth jazz, playing just loud enough to drape a false sense of ease over the gathering. But beneath the refined elegance, the undercurrents of power and deception churn.
Then, the shift happens.
A ripple moves through the crowd, subtle but undeniable. Conversations taper off, laughter dims, and bodies instinctively part to clear a path. It’s an unspoken law of nature—when the king arrives, the court adjusts accordingly.
I don’t turn immediately. I make him wait.
And then—I meet his gaze.
Samuel Delgado.
He stands at the entrance, draped in a black suit, his stance deceptively relaxed. His lips curl into amusement, but his eyes—his fucking eyes—betray the sharpness lurking beneath the surface.
He enjoys this. The friction, the unspoken challenges, the knowledge that we are the two most dangerous men in this room. He lives for the silent battles, the power plays. And so do I.
Tonight isn’t about words.
It’s about who walks away with the win.
It’s about who bleeds first.
The night moves at a steady pace, each painting unveiled with the kind of grandeur meant to stroke the egos of the elite. Every bid is measured, every number spoken a display of power. It’s not about the art. It never is. It’s about ownership. Influence. The hushed war that plays out in the margins of wealth.
I barely register the pieces that come and go, the murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. None of it matters. Because the real game hasn’t started yet.
Then—the moment arrives.
The lights dim just slightly, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. A well-trained trick to focus all attention on the stage. The next painting is revealed.
Isabella’s painting.
A murmur ripples through the crowd. I hear it—low, admiring whispers. Some recognize the style, the haunting familiarity of it. A ghost of something lost. Others simply see a masterpiece. A prize to be claimed.
Beside me, Isabella stills.
I don’t need to look at her to know what’s running through her mind. She’s feeling it. The vulnerability of seeing her work dissected by eyes that see nothing beyond the price tag.
I lean in, voice low, brushing against her ear. “Breathe, angel. It’s just a game.”
She exhales, nodding slightly, but her fingers tighten against the silk of her dress. She’s nervous.
She doesn’t realize she’s the queen on this chessboard.
And we’re about to see who’s willing to spill blood to own her work.
The auctioneer clears his throat, stepping forward. His voice rings through the room, cutting through the chatter like a blade.
“We’ll start the bidding at five million.”
A pause. A hint of hesitation.
Then—Samuel’s voice slices through the room like a knife. “Five million.”
Effortless. Certain. A declaration.
I expected this. I waited for it.
Others hesitate before wading in, cautious, testing the waters.
“Six million.”
“Seven.”
But it doesn’t take long before they start dropping like flies.
No one wants to go against Samuel fucking Delgado.
Which is why I raise my hand.
“Ten million.”
Beside me, Isabella’s breath hitches. She turns slightly, confusion flashing in her eyes, but I don’t look at her. My gaze stays locked on Samuel.
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.
He doesn’t blink.
“Thirty million.”
The room stills.
A collective inhale.
I feel Isabella’s sharp intake of breath, her confusion shifting into shock.
She doesn’t understand yet.
Why did he just outbid himself?
I don’t react. I hold Samuel’s stare. Unblinking. Measuring. Waiting.
He’s testing me.
And I let him win.
I lean back in my chair, smirking just enough to be noticed.
And I don’t raise my hand again.
The auctioneer’s eyes flick toward me, uncertainty in the pause before—
The gavel slams down.
“Sold to Samuel Delgado for thirty million.”
No celebration.
No gloating.
Because Samuel knows something is wrong.
I see it in the slight crease in his forehead, the flicker of wariness in his eyes as he watches me across the room. He’s trying to decipher what I just did.
Samuel Delgado has played this game long enough to know I don’t lose. Not unless I want to.
And that thought alone will haunt him.
He lifts his drink in a mock toast. A smirk tugs at his lips, but his eyes—his fucking eyes—are sharp, dissecting me like a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet.
Beside me, Isabella leans in, her voice low. “Why did you stop?”
I keep my smirk in place, my gaze never leaving Samuel’s.
“Because he was always going to win.” I lift my own glass, tilting it slightly toward Delgado in acknowledgment. “I just made sure he bled for it.”
I stand to leave. Nothing else in this room is worth my time. Samuel might retaliate but I’ve already thought of my next move.
Then—
A voice. Smooth. Unhurried.
“I know who the rat is.”
I don’t turn immediately.
I let the words settle. Let them seep into the cracks of the night, heavy with unspoken promises and unseen knives.
Then—I shift slightly, my gaze landing on Hugo Bianchi.
He eyes me with a smug expression, like he’s daring me to take the bait.
He’s waiting.
Waiting for me to bite.
I don’t react. Don’t show a fucking thing.
“Do you?” My voice is even.
Hugo smirks, slow and deliberate. “I do.”
A beat of silence. A slow game of chess played in real-time.
I know how Hugo operates. He deals in secrets, debts, leverage—the currency of men too smart to be caught with blood on their hands.
And when you owe Hugo Bianchi, you don’t just owe him a favor.
You belong to him.
I fold my hands behind my back, studying him with the same detached scrutiny I give to enemies before I decide if they’re worth the bullet. “You expect me to trust you?” My tone is smooth, but there’s an edge beneath it. “Your own gang doesn’t.”
His expression shifts, just barely. There’s a glint of darkness there.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Castellano.”
I tilt my head slightly, my smirk sharpening. “Don’t I?”
A pause. The air thickens, charged with unspoken threats.
I take a slow step forward, lowering my voice. “I heard about the fire in the warehouse.”
Hugo’s eyes shoot up.
His shoulders square just slightly, like he’s bracing himself, but his smirk doesn’t waver. “That was years ago.” His voice is lower now. “I was a kid. I didn’t know better.”
I let the words hang between us before delivering the final cut.
“But your gang’s original leader burned in that fire, didn’t he?”
I see it—the flash of old ghosts and unfinished business behind his eyes.
The kind of history that doesn’t die, just festers beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to sink its teeth in again.
Then—Hugo exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders back like shaking off a weight.
“You don’t know the full story.”
“Then tell me.”
His smirk twitches. “Would that change anything?”
I let out a soft chuckle, slow and measured. “No. But it would amuse me.”
A pause.
Then Hugo’s eyes darken. “He was a bastard. The old boss. People like to paint him as some martyr now, but they forget what he was.”
I say nothing, waiting.
Hugo’s fingers twitch at his side before he folds them into a loose fist. “He ran things like a goddamn dictatorship. You were either loyal, or you were dead. No in-between. I was a kid—fourteen—watching him burn through men like they were disposable.” His smirk deepens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Turns out, he wasn’t fucking untouchable, either.”
I arch a brow. “And you?”
Hugo holds my stare, unwavering. “I did what I had to.”
“I don’t give chances to those at risk.”
His lips curl into an expression between a smirk and a snarl. “And yet, you’re standing here. Listening.”
He’s right.
And I fucking hate it.
Because I need what he’s offering.
I need to find the rat before this whole thing spirals into something worse.
But trusting Hugo Bianchi?
That’s a fucking trap in itself.
He watches me carefully, reading every thought behind my eyes.
“This isn’t a trick, Castellano. You want to find the bastard leaking your business? You need me.” His voice drops lower, smooth like silk hiding a blade. “All I ask in return is one favor.”
I let the word settle.
Favor.
That word is more dangerous than a bullet.
A favor means debt. Owing. A leash that never really comes off.
I take a slow step forward, closing the space between us. “I don’t owe anyone.”
Hugo studies me. Then—he chuckles, a slow, knowing sound.
“Not yet.”
He steps back, his eyes gleaming with menace and impatience.
Because he knows.
He knows I’ll come back.
They always do.
The weight of the conversation lingers as I turn away, my mind already moving a hundred steps ahead.
I feel Isabella’s eyes on me. Searching. Questioning. She doesn’t say a word, but I know what she’s thinking.
What did he want?
Why didn’t you take the deal?
I don’t answer. Because the truth is—I don’t fucking know what the right move is yet.
Then—I see him.
Nico.
Moving toward me with a controlled urgency. His posture is composed, but I see it—the tightness around his mouth, his gleaming eyes. He wasn’t here in the first place, so if he has come, it can’t be good.
Bad fucking news.
He reaches us, his voice low. “We need to talk.”
I don’t move. Don’t react.
Isabella glances between us, sensing the shift.
Her fingers twitch slightly at her side, a soundless tell of her unease.
Her voice is quiet, almost hesitant. “Dominic?”
I finally look at her, but I don’t answer.
Because I already know—
This night just took a turn.
And whatever Nico is about to tell me?
It’s going to be a fucking problem.