29. Lucia
29
LUCIA
C asanova is. . . wow. The walls are red, the chandeliers are gold, and it positively reeks of luxury and opulence. The patrons match the ambiance. Everyone here looks effortlessly elegant. My black dress is one of the most flattering things I own, and I’m still struggling not to feel out of place.
I’ve visited sex clubs before. Back in my self-destructive phase in my early twenties, I used to be a regular at a club called Asylum. But Asylum, with its black walls and concrete floors, looked nothing like this. Asylum was a warehouse, and this club is practically the Taj Mahal.
Valentina introduces me to a few people at the bar. One of them is a man called Enzo Peron. “Lucia, Enzo is the chief of police,” she says with a sly grin. “He’s a good person to know.” Her smile widens. “Enzo, join us at our table, will you?”
I bite back my frown. I know that look in Valetina’s eyes. Is she match-making, and if so, why? Is this because I told her that I’m not interested in Antonio, and she’s decided she’s going to call me on that bluff?
Enzo is a good-looking man, tall, in fantastic shape, and much younger than I would have expected someone in his position to be. Valentina’s doing good by me, and any other time, I’d be buying her a drink as thanks for introducing me to a very hot guy.
But not today. Enzo’s not doing anything for me, and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual.
Valentina continues with the introductions. “Lucia just moved back to Venice,” she says. “She works as a curator at the Palazzo Ducale. Lucia, Enzo loves art. You should show him around the museum sometime.”
She’s being as subtle as a truck, and I’m going to strangle her the first chance I get. “I’m an assistant curator,” I correct. “And I’m only here on a five-month contract. Valentina is making it sound much more exciting than it actually is.”
A shadow falls over my friend’s face. “Right,” she says tonelessly. “You’re leaving in January. I forgot.”
“February. After Carnival.” I feel like a jerk reminding Valentina that my time here is temporary. Some days, it’s hard for me to notice the time passing. The first few weeks were excruciatingly difficult, and memories of my parents haunted every corner, but as the days have passed, being back also reminds me how much I missed Venice.
Painful memories or not, this city is and will always be the home of my heart, and I’m going to miss it when I leave. I’m going to miss being able to text Valentina a hundred times a day without having to account for the time difference between us. I’m going to miss eating dinner with her and Angelica listening to my goddaughter chatter about her day, her friends, and the pony she wants to buy the minute she turns thirteen.
Angelica wants to learn how to knit, but Valentina doesn’t know how. I do, however; my mom taught me, and I promised to teach my goddaughter. Will I have time to do that before I leave?
“You’ve moved back to Venice?” Enzo asks politely. “How long were you away?”
“Ten years.” A crew is setting up a Saint Andrew’s Cross in the center of the floor, and a woman in a skintight leather outfit leads a man to it and straps him in place. Goosebumps rise on my skin. I want to be that guy, bound tight, knowing that punishment is coming.
Valentina and Enzo are staring at me. I must’ve missed part of the conversation, gawking at the show in front of us like I’ve never seen somebody get punished before. “You sound Venetian, Enzo,” I say, trying to cover my embarrassment. “Are you from around here?”
“I grew up in Venice,” he replies. “But like you, I moved away for a while.”
“He returned home a couple of years ago,” Valentina adds. “He was a rising star in Rome, and we’re lucky to have him.”
The star in question looks faintly discomfited. “Valentina exaggerates.”
My eyes are drawn back to the floor show again. The woman circles the man, slow and intent, and the immobilized man watches her. Then, when the man takes his eyes off her for a second, she flicks the crop in her hands, and the sound of a crack fills the room.
My breath catches. I don’t care what Valentina and Enzo think; my attention narrows to the scene unfolding before me, and butterflies flutter in my stomach. There’s an ache in my core. I’m not just fantasizing about being the person in the middle of the room—my imagination has a mind of her own because I want Antonio to dominate me. As hard as I’m trying not to think about him, I’m picturing him circling me slowly, like a predator toying with his meal. I want him to come close to me, yank my hair back, and promise me pain and pleasure in equal measure. I want?—
“Hello, Lucia.”
My head snaps up. As if my need has summoned him here, Antonio Moretti has materialized in front of me.
I blink.
He’s still here.
Okay, he’s not a figment of my imagination. “Antonio? What are you doing here?”
His eyes flash dangerously. “Are you surprised to see me?” he asks, low and dark. “You shouldn’t be. Don’t you know by now that I’m aware of everything that happens in Venice?”
Valentina is trying hard not to smirk. “Hello, Antonio,” she says. “What a pleasant surprise.” She waves to the empty seat. “Would you like to join us?”
“No.” He gives Enzo a hard stare. “Peron. You’re looking well.”
Enzo’s expression is unreadable. “Moretti,” he says curtly.
Oh, shit. Judging by Enzo’s tone, he clearly knows that Antonio heads up the mafia. Which makes this a very awkward meeting. Enzo is the chief of police, Antonio operates on the wrong side of the law, and the two of them are glaring at each other as if they’re about to start throwing punches.
I need to act before Enzo gets hurt.
I slide out of my seat. “I need a drink,” I tell Antonio. “Buy me one?”
He inclines his head in agreement, and we walk to the bar. A hush has fallen over the room. The show is still going on, but every set of eyes is on Antonio. Unlike most of the men here, he’s dressed casually in dark slacks and a sweater. His hair is tousled, and his eyes look tired.
But no matter how he’s dressed or how weary he appears, everyone at Casanova knows that Antonio is the power in Venice. They’re watching him because it would be folly to ignore the apex predator in their midst.
He pays for my drink, then draws me into a quiet corner. “You didn’t answer my question, Lucia,” he says silkily. “Are you really surprised to see me? Because I don’t think you are.”
He steps closer, and I take an instinctive step back and hit a pillar. There is nowhere to run, something I should have remembered before provoking the beast.
But running is the last thing I want to do.
“I think,” he continues, “that you knew exactly what you were doing. You knew that my men were following you. The moment you walked into this club, you knew I would find out.” He puts his hand under my chin and tilts my head up, his thumb running over my lip. “I told you to call me, but instead, here you are, playing a very dangerous game. Isn’t that right, little thief?”
I swallow. He’s in a dangerous mood, and I love it. Even though I’m the one who told him to leave, all week long, it’s felt like a giant hand is squeezing my heart. But now Antonio’s here, and the pressure is gone. I’m giddy and breathless with anticipation.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” His hand cups my throat. “You came to Casanova, knowing what my reaction would be. You wanted to make me jealous, tesoro?”
I was too much of a coward to call him, but I did want to see him again. Did I subconsciously agree to visit Casanova in the hopes that I’d see him here? Did I plan on forcing his hand? Maybe. I don’t know. Probably.
“Are you jealous?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he replies, looking a little disgruntled by his admission. “Dante told me you were here, and I charged over here like a fucking fool, only to see you sitting at a table, laughing with Enzo. You’re playing with fire, Lucia.”
The room recedes to the background. People are still watching us, and I don’t care. There’s only one person that matters right now, and it’s the man standing in front of me, looking like wicked sin and temptation.
“Am I going to get burned?”
He takes the drink from my hand and sets it aside, then turns me so my back is pressed against his chest. His arm wraps around my waist and draws me into his body.
“You’re going to get punished, cara mia,” he says, his breath warm against my ear. His thumb slides over the swell of my breasts. “But only if you ask for it like a good girl.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
He’s going to punish me. Will he pull me over his lap and spank me the way he did in my dreams? Or will he circle me slowly, a crop in his hand, while I wait nervously for its painful bite? I’m ready for it all.
The outline of his erection presses against his slacks. “What do you have in mind? Do you want me to suck your cock?”
His hand cups my ass. “No,” he corrects, his voice deliciously stern. “If you ask very nicely, I’ll let you suck my cock. But first, I’m going to insist you come on my fingers and my mouth.” His lips curve in a half-smile. “You know what you have to do.”
My pulse is racing, and my throat is dry. But I’ve never been more ready, more certain of a decision. “Please, Antonio,” I say, my heart thudding in my chest. “Please punish me.”