Chapter 14 #2
She steps back, but her eyes never leave mine. I see the pulse hammering in her throat, the slight hitch in her breathing. Despite her defiance, something in her responds to me.
Blood and adrenaline pound through my veins. The club seems to fade around us, the crowd, the music—everything but her.
Lu clears her throat beside us. "Maybe we should—"
"No," I cut her off. "We're staying. Wasn't this what you wanted so badly, Lu? To come to Omertà?"
Lucrezia's eyes dart between Zoe and me, sensing the tension crackling in the air. Zoe's chest rises and falls with each breath, her green eyes never breaking from mine.
"Fine," she says, reaching for Lucrezia's hand. "Let's dance, Lu."
Before I can react, Zoe pulls my sister deeper into the crowd. The slit in her dress reveals flashes of thigh with each step.
Daniel appears at my side, his stance alert despite the casual way he leans toward me.
"Everything good, boss?"
"Keep eyes on them," I growl. "Both of them."
He nods, signaling to the security team positioned around the club. I watch as Zoe and Lucrezia find a spot in the center of the dance floor, bodies moving in sync with the pounding beat.
The crowd seems to part around them—my sister in shimmering silver, Zoe in that blood-red dress that's been driving me crazy since I first saw her in it. They're laughing, heads thrown back, hair down on their backs as they dance.
The tension in the car ride home is suffocating. Lucrezia sits in the back seat, unusually quiet. She's pissed off with Damiano and the scene he caused.
When we pull up to the mansion, Ginerva opens the door as our car approaches. Damiano storms ahead, not waiting for either of us.
"That went well," Lucrezia whispers with nervous humor as we climb the front steps.
I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my ears. "I think your brother nearly killed someone tonight."
"You didn't exactly help," she says, but there's no real accusation in her voice. "I've never seen him like that before."
We step into the foyer, the chandelier casting dramatic shadows across the marble floor. Damiano is nowhere to be seen, probably retreated to his office to brood or break something.
"I'm sorry if I ruined your night," I tell Lucrezia.
She shakes her head, silver dress catching the light as she moves. "Are you kidding? That was the most excitement I've had in years." Her expression softens as she reaches the stairs. "But maybe don't poke the bear quite so hard next time? For your sake, not his."
"I can handle your brother," I assure her.
Lucrezia gives me a look I can't quite interpret. "Goodnight, Zoe. Thanks for tonight."
"Goodnight, Lu."
I watch her disappear down the hallway before heading to my own room. My feet ache from dancing in these heels, and exhaustion suddenly hits me like a wave. The confrontation with Damiano at the club replays in my mind—the raw fury in his eyes, the possessive way he'd grabbed that man's throat.
I push open my bedroom door, flipping on the light. The red dress clings to my skin, and I reach down to remove my stilettos when the door crashes open behind me.
Damiano fills the doorway, still in his club clothes—dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to expose tattooed forearms. His eyes are dark fire, locked on mine with predatory intensity.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I demand, straightening up.
He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
In two strides, he's in front of me. Before I can react, his hands grab the neckline of my dress. With one savage jerk, he tears it down the middle, the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the silent room.
I gasp, frozen in shock as cool air hits my exposed skin. The dress hangs in tatters around my waist, leaving me in just my black lace bra.
"You're not wearing this fucking dress again," Damiano growls, his voice a dangerous rumble that vibrates through the space between us. His eyes drop to my exposed skin, then snap back to my face. "Not in my club. Not anywhere."
Heat flashes through me—rage, fear, and something else I refuse to name. I lift my chin, refusing to cover myself.
"You think tearing my clothes off proves something? It just shows what a primitive animal you are." I spit out.
His nostrils flare, and he steps even closer. I can smell his cologne mixed with whiskey, feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Provoke me again like you did tonight," he says, each word precise and deadly, "and you'll find out exactly what kind of animal I am."
I laugh in his face, the sound sharp and mocking. "Is that what this is about? Your precious male ego couldn't handle me dancing with someone else?" I step closer until we're almost touching. "Or maybe you're just jealous because for once, someone was looking at me instead of you."
His hand shoots up to grip my jaw, fingers pressing into my skin. Not painful, but firm enough that I can't turn away.
"This isn't about my ego," Damiano says, his Italian accent thickening with anger. "This is about your safety. The man who touched you works for Volkov. The same people who placed Nick to spy on Lucrezia."
I blink, momentarily thrown off balance by this information. But I recover quickly.
"So tear my dress. That'll solve everything." I reach up and wrap my fingers around his wrist, not pulling his hand away, just holding it there. "What's next, Damiano? Lock me in my room? Chain me to your side?"
Damiano releases my jaw, but doesn't step back. Instead, his finger trails down my neck, a featherlight touch that sends unwelcome electricity racing across my skin.
"You see, lupacchiotta," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear, "your words say one thing, but your body..."
His finger continues its descent, tracing my collarbone, then sliding down to the edge of my bra. I try to control my breathing, but it's becoming shallow, betraying me.
"Your body says something else entirely," Damiano murmurs, his lips so close to my ear I can feel them brush against me. "Your pulse is racing. Your skin is flushed. You're responding to my touch."
"I am not," I hiss, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears. I hate him. I hate him for killing my father. I hate him for controlling me. And most of all, I hate him for making me feel this way.
"No?" Damiano's hand suddenly dips lower, past the torn fabric of my dress, brushing between my legs with deliberate pressure. A gasp escapes me before I can stop it. "Liar," he growls, his eyes locked on mine.
I jerk away from his touch, anger and shame burning through me in equal measure.
"No! Don't you dare touch me like that," I snap, putting distance between us. My legs feel shaky and I'm furious with myself for reacting to him at all. "I don't care who works for who or what game you're playing—I'm not a toy for you to handle whenever you feel like it."
Damiano's eyes darken, but he drops his hand. A cold smile spreads across his face, somehow more unsettling than his rage.
"Such conviction," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Such... resistance." He steps back, running his gaze deliberately down my body. "But we both know the truth now, don't we?"
I clutch the torn pieces of my dress together, hating how exposed I feel. "The only truth I know is that you're a controlling, arrogant bastard who thinks everyone belongs to you."
Damiano laughs, the sound rich and dark. He leans in, not touching me but close enough that I can feel his breath on my face.
"Mark my words, Zoe. There will come a day—" his voice drops to a whisper, "—and very soon, when you'll be begging me to touch you."
My skin prickles with goosebumps as he continues, "You'll be writhing beneath me, saying my name like a prayer, desperate for the very thing you're rejecting now."
"Never," I spit out, but my voice trembles.
Damiano straightens, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. He's already stepping back, moving toward the door with casual confidence, as if he's won something.
"We'll see, lupacchiotta. Sweet dreams."
The door closes behind him with a soft click, so much quieter than his dramatic entrance. I'm left alone in the silence, breathing hard, the torn dress hanging from my body like a battle flag.
I sink down onto my bed, mind racing. My hand presses against my thundering heart, willing it to slow down, to stop betraying me.
This is all wrong. I'm supposed to be destroying him, not responding to him. Not feeling anything but hatred for my father's killer.
I pace my room for several minutes after Damiano leaves, struggling to calm my racing thoughts. The torn dress hangs limply from my body. With shaking hands, I finally peel it off and toss it in the trash. It's ruined anyway.
After changing into pajamas, I grab my phone and dial Scarlett's number, not caring about the late hour. She answers on the third ring, her voice groggy with sleep.
"Zoe? What's wrong?"
"He tore my dress off," I blurt out, my voice tight with anger. "He actually grabbed it and ripped it right down the middle."
There's a beat of silence, then Scarlett's voice comes through, suddenly wide awake. "Wait, what? Damiano tore your dress? Like, forcibly removed it?"
"Yes! We got back from the club, and he followed me to my room and just... destroyed it. Said I wouldn't be wearing it again."
"Wow." Scarlett lets out a low whistle. "So... was it like a sexy bodice-ripper moment, or more of a psycho killer vibe? Because context matters here."
Despite everything, a reluctant laugh escapes me. "Scarlett, this isn't funny."
"I'm not saying it is, but come on. The guy literally ripped your clothes off. That's either the start of a horror movie or a romance novel." Her tone lightens further. "Was it at least an ugly dress?"
"It was the red one you helped me pick out last month on FaceTime," I say, collapsing onto my bed.
"The Valentino?" Scarlett gasps dramatically. "Okay, now I'm pissed. That was couture, you monster-in-law!" She pauses. "Did he at least look hot while committing fashion homicide?"
I roll my eyes, but feel some of the tension leaving my body. This is so typically Scarlett – finding humor in the darkest situations. She's been doing this since forever, turning my stress into something we could laugh about.
"You know," she continues, "most women have to pay good money for that kind of bodice-ripping experience."
"You're terrible," I say, but I'm smiling now despite myself. "This is serious, Scar."
"I know, I know." Her voice sobers slightly. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
"No, he didn't hurt me. He just... I don't know. It was intense." I hesitate, not wanting to admit how my body reacted to him. "He thinks he owns me."
"Well, legally speaking..."
"Scarlett!"
"Sorry! Bad joke." She sighs. "Look, I'm still worried about this whole situation. The man clearly has serious boundary issues."
I slam my bedroom door behind me, my knuckles white around the doorknob. Every muscle in my body is wound tight, ready to snap.
The image of Zoe standing there in nothing but black lace burns through my mind like wildfire. The smooth curve of her waist. The swell of her breasts barely contained by that flimsy bra.
"Fuck," I mutter, pacing across my bedroom like a caged animal.
Her body had responded to me—I wasn't imagining it. That sharp intake of breath when I touched her. The way her pulse hammered beneath my fingers. The heat of her skin.
My cock throbs painfully against my zipper, demanding attention I refuse to give. I won't jerk off thinking about her.
I fucking won't.
I strip off my clothes.
I need a shower. A cold one.
The bathroom tile is cool beneath my feet as I turn the shower to its coldest setting. I step under the spray, hissing as the icy water hits my overheated skin. It does nothing to erase the memory of Zoe's defiant green eyes, the way they'd darkened when I touched her.
"Never," she'd said, but her body told a different story.
I brace my hands against the shower wall, letting the freezing water rush down my back, willing it to wash away this unwanted desire. The water pounds against my neck and shoulders, but I can still feel the ghost of her fingers around my wrist—not pushing me away, just holding me there.
She wanted me. Her body wanted me, even as her mouth spat venom.
And for fuck sake.
I want her too.