Chapter 3
Lily
Saying I was relieved to be called downstairs was an understatement.
However short-lived that sentiment might be.
Usually, the admin office next to Basilio's much larger one was a place of solitude, but not today. Camille had stormed into it minutes ago, absolutely furious, and even if I wasn’t the cause, it never ended well for me.
This time I was and her murmured words about me being a suck up bitch were followed up with a surprisingly hard slap across my face.
I could still feel the sting on my cheek minutes later, sure that if I looked in a mirror, a hand mark would be there.
A small, clearly female-shaped one. Shit.
This was a first. Usually, she verbally abused me, never physically. However, I couldn’t honestly say I was surprised. This is how things typically progressed, except she wasn’t apologizing afterwards.
I stand in the hallway, taking a minute to compose myself. Basilio’s tone conveyed urgency, leaving me with no time to assess the severity of the mark on my cheek. Hoping to hide any redness, I brush the hair of my black bob-cut wig forward. It would have to do.
Now that I am out of that situation, the one I am walking into settles front and center.
With every step, my stomach tightens with anxiety.
The important guests are still here, so why am I being summoned?
Do they know who I am? Do they know him ?
What if they were sent here to take me back?
The anxiety I'm feeling makes me nauseous, and by the time I step foot back into the club, my mouth is as dry as a desert as I take a large gulp of smoke-filled air.
It's like being strangled by a smelly invisible hand.
I spot Basilio at a private booth near the back, and as I make my way toward him, I notice the black-suited men from earlier scattered around the room, none of them paying attention to the strippers.
Basilio’s gaze locks onto mine before sliding over to my cheek—anger ignites, his eyes turning to slits as he stands up, brushing the strands of hair aside so that he can get a better look.
“What the fuck happened to your face?” Basilio’s harsh tone conveys his fury.
Shit. My eyes flare as I consider what to say. Being truthful was absolutely out of the question.
“I tripped,” I lie, my gaze dropping to the floor in case he sees the deception in my eyes. There was no way I would pin this on Camille. It was already bad when she was here and Basilio wasn’t around. Imagine if I admitted it was her.
“Do you always let your whore beat your staff?” The words themselves, while surprising, are not what draw my gaze from the ground to see who has spoken them.
It is the sound of them that has hooked my attention.
While most men have a naturally deep voice, this man’s voice was deeper and huskier than any I had heard before.
One of those voices that, once you've heard it, you can distinguish from a million others.
Every time. While the words were spoken casually and quietly, the space around them swam with command.
Authority painted every letter and licked every vowel as it fell from his lips.
My gaze meets one that reveals nothing. The same man who captivated me earlier is stealing my breath again as he sits casually back in the booth.
One arm rests over the backrest, while the other rests on his thigh.
The movement of his tattooed index finger tapping rhythmically up and down on his knee draws my attention.
I take everything in, my eyes greedy for every detail.
No one has intrigued me like this before.
The cut on his knuckle, barely visible and covered in ink.
The manicured nails, which are deceptive, for this man's hands have worked.
The roughness of the skin on his fingers gives it away.
The veins on the tops of his hands, which allude to a strength that ordinary hands do not possess.
His broad forearms, which meet even broader biceps, with the material of his suit wrapped around them like the wrapping of a present.
Because God only knows that what lies beneath is a treat.
My gaze drifts up, latching onto the open collar of his shirt where more tattoos cover the skin, the one button almost teasing for the rest to be opened.
I blink several times, the inane thought of how an open button can elicit such feelings floating through my mind and banishing the fear and anxiety that were, and still should be, there.
Since when has one open button been such a turn-on?
He growls. Growls? It is the only way I can describe the utterly guttural sound that draws my attention to eyes that stare at me with a combination of amusement and, dare I say, desire? No, as quickly as I think I see that, it is gone, replaced with boredom.
An illusion. He may appear bored, relaxed even, but I can sense that if necessary, he could be out of that seat and in front of me faster than I could blink—no small feat, given his size.
I estimate him to be at least six feet four inches tall and around two hundred thirty pounds.
Besides his hands, his neck up to his jawline is covered in tattoos, the ink fading into his black dress shirt.
Black shirt, black ink, black hair, black stubble. This man is made of shadows.
“Daisy,” Basilio snaps my name, returning my attention back to him. “Did Camille do this to you?” he asks, softly touching my face. The contrast between his touch and his tone leaves me confused. Is he angry with me or with her?
I shake my head, not liking to lie verbally.
“You shouldn’t lie, il mio fiorellino . It will make your petals wilt.” My eyes dart over to the man once again, his voice like a magnet. Italian. While his accent isn’t pronounced when he speaks English, it is noticeable when he speaks Italian.
“Sit down. Both of you.” His gaze remains locked with mine as he issues his command.
Basilio’s hand drops from my cheek, the warmth that was there only registering as gone once he sits.
The fact that he obeys this man's orders without hesitation tells me all I need to know. Basilio is not the boss right now, and I’m not surprised.
This man could walk into any room and own it with his overpowering presence alone.
It is as suffocating as the smoke in the air.
Realizing this and that I am still standing, I look around the table, trying to decide where to sit. The man’s scrutinizing gaze makes me blush and squirm, the heat in the club suddenly intensifying.
“Bring a chair.” More commands. As I turn to get one, his voice stops me.
“Not you, little flower,” the mysterious man says, his gaze drifting from me to Camille, whom I hadn’t noticed standing off to the side of the booth. Clearly eavesdropping. I'm so flustered that I don't even have a chance to ponder the term of endearment used with such ease.
“You. Now.” Camille flushes, anger rising again as she looks from the man to me, then to Basilio. Basilio glares at her, inclining his head, before she walks to the other booth and starts dragging a chair over, which she unceremoniously thuds down behind me.
“Now go upstairs, and don’t come down until Basilio tells you to.” The warning in the man's look signals to Camille, as the blood drains from her face and fear propels her to escape. Shit, I was going to be in trouble later.
“Now, where were we? Introductions.” The man gazes at Basilio, his earlier expression replaced by one of boredom. I sit down, nervously wringing my hands in my lap.
“Daisy, this is my cousin, Dominico Sante. Dominico, this is Daisy.” Dominico. Of course. A name fit for a god.
I look between Basilio and Dominico as he introduces us, trying and failing to see the resemblance. They look nothing alike.
“Just Daisy?” This question comes from the man sitting to the left of Dominico. He scares me the most. It’s not only the scar marring his cheek and his resemblance to a Viking, but also how he looks at me. Like I am a threat that needs to be neutralized.
“You look familiar,” the Viking guy says, tilting his head to the side as he assesses me.
My body reacts to being under the microscope, my heart beating frantically in my chest and my hands becoming clammy.
Though god has never helped me before, I silently pray that my wig will do what it's intended to do: make me look nothing like the woman I once was.
“That is Nero,” Basilio continues, indicating towards the man with a menacing appearance.
“And that is Dante,” he adds, pointing to the man on the opposite side of Dominico.
He at least smiles at me and seems the least frightening of the three.
However, I am well aware that appearances can be deceiving, and the charm he clearly possesses might be concealing a darker side .
“Yes, it’s just Daisy,” I reply, hoping the lie does not shine through.
I glance at Nero, who leans back in his seat, his hand stroking his long beard as he continues to study me.
Breaking eye contact, I look at Basilio for support and guidance in this situation.
He gives me a reassuring smile before turning his gaze to Dominico, all warmth vanishing.
I am so tense that I feel like I did when I was little and had to ask my parents for something—the buildup before a storm.
Silence ensues, its breadth filled with Dominico assessing me, searching my physical appearance for truth that who and what I am are indeed correct.
Will he find it there? Am I that transparent to him?
I should look away, not make it so easy, but I cannot.
Usually, I would avoid direct eye contact, thinking it made me less noticeable.
With this man, I find myself unable to look away.
He is exceptionally intriguing. And handsome.
It feels as if he has been sculpted solely to be a visual extravaganza.
Not in the model way that Basilio is, but in a highly primal, rugged, bad-to-the-bone manner.
Handsome is the wrong word. Sexy . Hot .
Delicious . These words are likely better suited.
He is undeniably an alpha male. However, when he arrived earlier, instead of having a swarm of women dancing on his lap, or engaging in more intimate activities, he declined the offer.
Their disappointment was evident when I passed them during their shift change with Rosy. I could understand their reaction.
Quirking my head to the side, I wonder what kind of man he is and what line of work he is in.
Perhaps he owns a strip club like Basilio.
His Armani suit and Rolex watch alone suggest that he is well-off, but so is Basilio.
And why does he have these two guys with him?
Maybe he is famous, and these are his bodyguards?
I look around, once again noticing the men dotted around the room .
“Are you famous or something?” The words escape my lips before I can stop them, accompanied by a blush.
Dominico erupts in a deep chuckle, one I wish to bottle and save so that I can open it in the privacy of my apartment at night when I am alone and relive the shiver it sends down my spine.
His gaze remains fixed on me while his words are directed at Basilio.
“Ahhh, cousin, I can now see why…” Dominico's cryptic words linger in the air as I look at Basilio, whose face pales slightly. The words appear to mean more to him than to me.