Chapter 21
Lorenzo
T he ballroom of Obsidian Tulip Hall breathes with ambition—suits and gowns circling each other like sharks scenting blood in the water. I watch them from behind my black mask, which isn’t dripping with feathers or gilded edges. Simplicity at its finest.
The party is already in full swing, seventy-five bodies packed into the hall. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across marble floors. The air tastes of expensive champagne—sharp, saccharine, and laced with ambition.
To them, this is the pinnacle of access—an invitation people would sell their souls to get. And they do. Some through money, others through favors, a select few through secrets. The cost varies, but everyone pays.
I host this event every year for two reasons: irony and indulgence. In my world, masks aren’t reserved for costume parties. They’re worn by politicians who preach family values while fucking their secretaries, by CEOs who champion sustainability while their factories poison rivers.
Tonight is simply the one day a year everyone openly wears a mask. The honesty in that lie amuses me.
“And what are your thoughts on the latest appropriations bill?”
Senator Kinley has been talking at me for ten minutes, his voice a grating intrusion. His mask—gold filigree with emerald accents—probably cost more than his assistant’s monthly salary. I notice how his eyes drift to every young woman who passes, even as he speaks about fiscal responsibility.
“The language regarding foreign aid is problematic,” I say, offering just enough to seem engaged. “The restrictions will cripple our allies in Eastern Europe.”
Not that I care. Not that I’ll back his opposition either. The Russo family has existed longer than this country. We’v e learned to profit regardless of who holds power.
“Precisely my concern,” Kinley nods, mistaking my response for alliance. “I’ve been trying to tell…”
I don’t hear the rest of his sentence. My spine straightens as if pulled by an invisible wire. The hair on the back of my neck rises. The air in the room changes—becomes charged, electric. My body knows before my eyes confirm.
My perfect little toy has arrived.
It’s not sight, not sound—it’s something deeper, almost primal. Like my heartbeat resetting to match a rhythm only I can hear. My fingers tighten imperceptibly around my whiskey glass as I turn, the movement unhurried despite the sudden rush of blood in my veins.
She stands in the doorway, hesitating for just a moment before Ben Jacks urges her forward with a hand pressed low on her back. Too low. I want to rip them from their sockets. I want to extract each finger, one by one, that dares to touch what’s mine.
I keep my face still, my body relaxed, even as I track her movements. Even as I imagine the sound his neck would make if I snapped it right here, in front of D.C.’s elite.
“Excuse me, Senator,” I say, cutting him off mid-sentence. “I see some new faces I need to welcome.”
I don’t wait for his response. He’ll interpret it as rudeness born of power, not the warning it actually is. Stay relevant or stay silent. The Russo family has no use for political allies who can’t keep up.
I make my way toward the bar, positioning myself strategically so I have a perfectly unobstructed view of my toy as she walks into the room.
Her skin is painted porcelain white, cheeks flushed just right. Her full lips are the color of blood, and I want to feel them part around my dick. Her lashes are thick, impossibly long, and doll-like. Two high pigtails bounce with every movement, each tied with a blood-red bow.
That velvet dress clings to her bodice like fucking sin. The deep crimson fabric is cut like a corset, stitched tight enough that her tits look like they’d spill with the right pressure. She’s fucking perfect.
Someone touches my arm and laughs close to my ear. I don’t bother looking. I bat their hand away like an insect, eyes never leaving the toy that just wandered into my den.
My gaze drifts down her dress to the skirt. It’s long in the back, flaring behind her like she’s dragging every man’s soul across the floor. In the front, it’s short. Only reaching her mid-thigh, revealing garters I want to tear apart with my teeth.
She’s wearing long black gloves that cover her to the upper arms—feminine, dramatic. And her shoes… fuck. Five-inch jet black heels with small bows on the toes.
A doll’s shoes on a body meant to be used. And around her neck? A black silk ribbon, tied like a choker, its tails brushing the top of her chest. Decorative, sure—but I could pull them tighte r. Loop them around my fist. Make her breathe for me.
She came dressed like my fantasy. I lick my bottom lip, slow and unhurried, imagining what her lipstick will taste like. My jaw flexes again. The need to drag her away and fuck her against any surface that’ll hold is almost overwhelming.
Signaling the bartender, he rushes to bring me another whiskey without being asked. The ice clinks against the crystal as I take a measured sip, enjoying the burn. Across the room, Piper laughs at something, the sound carrying even over the murmur of conversations.
I watch as she excuses herself from her current conversation. Ben tries to follow, but she shakes her head, gesturing toward the ladies’ room.
Cy joins me, ordering a drink before turning to me. “I thought the point was to have the interns mingle. Not just stand by themselves,” he observes, giving Alice an appreciative glance.
Chuckling, I slap him on the arm. “Go ahead,” I say. “If you can pry her away from Ben.” I finish my whiskey and set the glass down on a passing server’s tray.
I don’t approach my toy right away. Instead, I orbit—positioning myself with the precision of a war strategist. The room becomes my chessboard, the guests my pawns, and Piper, my queen, though she doesn’t know she’s playing yet.
Every move I make is calculated to draw her attention without seeming to seek it. Every conversation I join has a dual purpose—political utility and optimal sightline.
I insert myself into a circle of federal judges whose careers depend on my family’s good graces. They laugh too loudly at my observations, eager to please. I make a mental note of which ones might be useful later. Which ones might be expendable.
Throughout it all, I maintain my awareness of Piper’s location. The space between us is electric, charged with possibility. I talk to the right people, shake the right hands, but I always end up in her line of sight, making sure she can hear my voice.
The Chief Justice of the D.C. Circuit Court is mid-sentence when I feel it—the shift in the air that tells me she’s looking directly at me now. I turn my head, unhurried, and our eyes lock across the crowded room.
For one perfect, crystallized moment, it’s just us—everyone else fades to background noise. Her lips part slightly. The champagne glass in her hand tilts dangerously before she catches herself. Recognition and shock flitters across her face before it’s replaced by something else entirely.
I allow myself a small smile, lifting my glass in the slightest acknowledgement before I move through the crowd toward a group that includes the Secretary of State, positioning myself so Piper will have to pass by on her way to the bar.
When she does, I reach out, my fingers barely brushing her bare elbow.
“Miss Harrington,” I say, my voice low enough that only she can hear. “Won’t you join us? Secretary Whitman was just discussing the diplomatic corps internship program.”
Her eyes widen fractionally, surprise flickering across her features before she composes herself. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” she says, her voice remarkably steady despite the tension I can feel humming through her.
“Nonsense.” I move my hand to the small of her back, guiding her into the circle. The touch is brief but deliberate, my fingers pressing just firmly enough to feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.
It’s a test—to see if she’ll play along, to see if she understands the opportunity I’m creating for her. She handles herself well, her intelligence evident in how quickly she adapts to conversations. Until Senator Darnell joins us and asks her a pointed question about loyalty.
“Tell me, Miss Harrington, where do your allegiances lie when policy conflicts with the party?” The Senator’s eyes are sharp beneath his ornate mask. It’s a trap—answer one way, she’s principled but difficult; answer another, she’s a soulless operator.
I watch her hesitate, caught between her genuine answer and the politically expedient one. She meets Darnell’s gaze steadily, a flash of defiance in her eyes. “I’d rather be honest than pretend politics is ever fully separated from self-interest.”
The Senator’s eyebrows rise as he gives a small respectful nod, and I feel a surge of something dangerous in my chest. Pride, perhaps. Or hunger.
I note how she keeps trying to act unaffected throughout the evening, but every brush of my fingers against her bare arm, every moment I lean too close to whisper some observation about the person we’re speaking with, breaks something small in her facade.
A quick intake of breath. A momentary loss of her train of thought. The way she shifts her weight when I stand too near, as if her body can’t decide whether to move closer or pull away.
By the time midnight approaches, the party has reached that comfortable level of inebriation where secrets start to spill. A supreme court justice is laughing too loudly at a senator’s joke. Two congressional aides are exchanging meaningful glances by the terrace doors.
Excusing myself, I go to the bathroom, and when I return, Piper’s nowhere to be seen. I frown, immediately searching for Ben. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about him I don’t trust.
But he’s lip locked with… well, isn’t that interesting. He’s not-too-discreetly kissing someone he definitely shouldn’t be. I scoff at the predictability, and go looking for my toy.
I find her hiding out in a quiet, dark alcove. It’s far enough away to offer some privacy, yet close enough it can still be considered part of the party.
“You’ve made quite an impression tonight,” I say, close enough that my breath stirs the wisps of hair by her ear. “Secretary Whitman asked for your contact information.”
“Thank you for the introductions,” she replies, her voice carefully neutral despite the slight tremble I can see in her fingers. “Though I’m curious why you’re taking such an interest in my career.”
I allow myself a small smile. “Who says it’s your career I’m interested in?”
She doesn’t move when I step behind her. Not right away. Just keeps her back straight, her breath steady. But her hands twitch at her sides, like she doesn’t trust them not to reach for me.
I lean in slowly, letting my presence fold around her like a shadow. The silk bow tied around her neck brushes my chest. I lower my head until my lips nearly touch her skin.
“This alcove is supposed to be off-limits,” I murmur. “You seem to be good at worming your way into places you shouldn’t be.”
“So are you,” she retorts.
With a chuckle, I kiss the curve where her neck meets her collarbone. Her skin is still cool from the air but warms beneath my lips in seconds. She draws in a sharp breath when I trail upward, teeth grazing the edge of her jaw.
One of my hands slides over her hip, while the other finds her waist and tightens. Just enough to tell her she’s not going anywhere.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispers, but her voice falters when I nuzzle behind her ear, biting the shell. Her head tips to the side almost instinctively, exposing her throat.
“There’s a lot of things I shouldn’t be doing,” I rasp, and kiss the side of her neck again—harder this time, open-mouthed.
She makes a sound that’s not quite a moan, not quite a gasp, and her ass presses back into me before she realizes what she’s doing. I growl low in my throat; the sound meant only for her. She can feel exactly how hard I am.
When she finally turns her head, just enough to catch my eyes over her shoulder, she breathes, “So this is what you look like.”
I chuckle darkly, my lips still against her skin. “Do you miss the blindfold?”
She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh— might —but it turns into a gasp when my hands roam higher. One curls around her ribs, my thumb brushing the underside of her breast. The other dips beneath the drape of her skirt again, this time with more purpose.
Her back arches again—natural, reactive. Not a performance. Her ass grinds against me in slow motion, and I hiss between my teeth.
Our lips collide in a flurry of inevitability, punishment, and want. She opens to me, but before I can react, my toy slides her tongue into my mou th, her teeth grazing my bottom lip.
The kiss is hard, but so fucking perfect. She’s not some meek little toy tonight, she’s a woman on a mission. One I’m all too happy to help her with. When I finally pull back, her eyes are heavy-lidded, her lips swollen, her breath uneven.
“Do you like watching from the shadows?” I ask, grinding my dick against her ass again. “Watching people who have no idea you’re observing them?” My hand slides up her thigh, dipping under her skirt and continuing upward until I cup her cunt.
“Yes,” she moans.
“Why?” I ask, pushing her underwear to the side.
“Because…” She falters.
“Because what?” I prompt as I circle her clit. “Use your words, Miss Harrington.”
She laughs softly. “Why so formal when you’re playing with my pussy?”
Her hips stutter against my hand, breath catching as I circle her clit. “Because what?” I whisper again, right against her ear. “Tell me.”
Her head drops back onto my shoulder. Her mouth opens, but all that escapes is a whimper. I drag my hand lower, just barely teasing her entrance, not enough to satisfy, just enough to ruin.
“Because it’s power,” she finally says, voice cracked open. “Watching people pretend to be something they’re not.”
I smile against her skin, slow and dark. “And who are you pretending to be tonight, little doll?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Her silence is the truth I’ve been waiting for.
My hand abandons her cunt, leaving her panting and half-wrecked already. I slide it around her waist instead, pressing her tighter to me. Her ass molds to the hardness of my dick, and I feel her shiver at the pressure.
Then, with my other hand, I reach into my jacket and pull out the cigar. Still wrapped. Still waiting. Just like her.