Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Dmitri
The champagne bottle sweats in my grip as I pour two glasses. Dom Pérignon again. Nothing but the best for the princess who walked into my kingdom without knowing she was already mine.
She stands near the tinted windows, her reflection ghosting against the Chicago skyline. I've imagined peeling her dress off her body at least a hundred times since the moment I saw her tonight.
She didn't recognize me.
The thought burns through my chest like cheap vodka. A month ago, I kissed her hand and she fled like I'd branded her. Now she's in my private room, looking at me like I'm just some stranger who might scratch an itch.
She didn't even bother to learn who owns Nexus.
I should be insulted. Instead, I'm fucking furious. Not at her ignorance, but at the realization that she came here tonight looking for exactly this. A man. Any man. If she'd gone to any other club in Chicago, some worthless piece of shit would have his hands on her right now.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
"Nice place." Her voice carries that particular rasp of a woman who's had just enough champagne to lower her walls.
Dark eyes sweep across the room—the round bed with its black silk sheets, the ambient lighting that turns everything gold and shadow.
She doesn't notice the drawer built into the headboard. Doesn't know what's inside.
Restraints. A blindfold.
Things I want to use on her.
"It serves its purpose." I cross the space between us, holding out her glass. Our fingers brush during the exchange and her breath catches. Such a small sound. It goes straight to my cock.
She takes a sip, watching me over the rim. "And what purpose is that?"
"Privacy."
"From?"
"Everyone." I drink, never breaking eye contact. "No cameras in here. No interruptions. Just... whatever happens between the walls."
Her tongue darts out to catch a drop of champagne on her lower lip. The gesture is unconscious, unplanned, and it nearly breaks my control.
She wants to get fucked.
The knowledge sits heavy in my gut. She came out tonight hunting for pleasure. And she would have found it. Some other man would have taken her home, touched her, been inside her.
Over my dead body.
I set my glass down on the nearest surface. The click of crystal on wood sounds loud in the charged silence.
"You look at me like you want something, Vittoria." I step closer. "Tell me what it is."
Her pupils dilate. I watch it happen in real time, the black swallowing the brown until her eyes look almost feral. "I don't even know your name."
"Does it matter?"
She should say yes. She should demand answers, identification, proof that I'm not about to do terrible things to her. Instead, she tilts her chin up—defiant, hungry—and whispers, "No."
Fuck.
I know what I'm risking. The Sartoris are days away from signing an alliance with my family. If anyone discovers I touched their princess without permission, without proper courtship, without the dozens of negotiations that should precede even a handshake—
War. Blood in the streets. Everything my father has built, burning.
But she's looking at me like she wants to be devoured, and I've never been good at denying myself what I want.
I take the glass from her hand and set it aside. She doesn't protest. Her chest rises and falls faster now, the swell of her breasts straining against that sinful dress.
"Last chance to leave," I tell her. My voice has dropped into something rough, barely controlled. "Walk out that door, go back to your friend, forget this room exists."
She doesn't move.
"I don't want to leave."
Four words. They seal her fate.
I cup her face in my hands and bring my mouth down on hers.
The moan that escapes her throat vibrates against my lips, and whatever restraint I had left shatters into dust. I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers, swallowing the small sounds she makes. Her hands fist in my shirt like she needs an anchor.
Mine.
The word pounds through my blood with every heartbeat.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
She doesn't know who I am. Doesn't know that I've watched her from across crowded rooms, memorized the way she moves, learned her schedule through careful observation that borders on obsession.
She will.
But not tonight. Tonight, she's just a woman who wanted a stranger's hands on her body.
Too bad for her.
I'm the only man she's ever going to want again.
I walk her backward until her shoulders hit the window. The glass is cold against my knuckles where I brace myself on either side of her head. She gasps at the temperature contrast, arching into me.
Vittoria
His mouth moves against mine like he owns it. Like he's memorized every nerve ending and knows exactly how to set them on fire.
And God, he's good at this.
My back presses against the cool glass of the window, his body a wall of heat pinning me there.
His hand cups my jaw, tilting my head exactly where he wants it, and some distant part of my brain notes how his other hand stays planted on the glass beside my head.
Not grabbing. Not groping. Just... containing.
Controlled.
Too controlled.
This isn't some random hookup at a club. This man held a gun to someone's head fifteen minutes ago without breaking a sweat. He knew my family name before I said it. He's got a private room in this club, which means he either owns it or runs something important enough to warrant one.
And I don't know his name.
Vittoria, you absolute disaster.
I flatten my palms against his chest and push.
He steps back immediately. No hesitation, no resistance, no wounded male ego demanding an explanation. Just... space. Like he expected it.
My lips feel swollen. The champagne-warmth in my blood wars with the cold clarity flooding my skull.
"You're hot as hell," I say, because apparently my mouth operates independently of my brain tonight. "And I... thank you. For the VIP treatment and the whole gun-to-the-head thing with that creep. But I can't do this."
The words taste like ash and relief mixed together. Like stopping yourself from jumping off a cliff you were absolutely going to enjoy falling from.
He studies me for a long moment. Those eyes track across my face like he's cataloging every micro-expression, filing it away for future reference.
Then he nods.
"Good."
I blink. "Good?"
"Good," he repeats. His voice is calm. Almost... approving? "You should go home now."
My spine stiffens. The haze clears completely, replaced by the sharp edge of suspicion that's kept me alive in a family where everyone has secrets.
"You know my family."
It's not a question.
Something flickers in his expression. Too fast to read. "I know them."
"Uh-huh." I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how much skin this dress exposes. "Well, too bad for you. If you tell anyone I was up here with you, you'll end up a missing person."
His mouth curves. Not a smile, exactly. More like amusement he's trying to suppress.
"I have no doubt."
The response throws me. Most men would bristle at a threat like that. Get defensive. Puff up their chests and remind me they're dangerous too.
This one just... accepts it. Like he's already factored my family's reach into whatever equation is running behind those eyes.
Who the hell are you?
The question burns on my tongue, but I swallow it. Because asking means staying. Staying means conversation. Conversation means those eyes on me for longer, and I'm not sure my resolve can handle much more of that particular assault.
My brothers would know him. The thought surfaces unbidden. He's got the same energy. Mafia. Has to be. But which family?
I haven't dug into the new operations in a while. Been too busy with our own systems. Too busy avoiding grief by drowning in code.
Doesn't matter. Go home.
"Yes, Daddy," I mutter, already turning toward the door.
His sharp intake of breath behind me is deeply satisfying.
I don't look back.
Amanda's platinum hair is easy to spot in VIP, her head thrown back mid-laugh at something Elio said. He's standing closer than professional distance requires, and normally I'd file that away for later teasing, but right now I just need out.
"Tori!" Amanda's face lights up when she sees me. "Where did you—oh my God, your lipstick is wrecked."
"Elio." I ignore Amanda's rapid-fire questions. "I need to go home. Now."
His posture shifts immediately. Guard mode engaged. "Everything okay?"
"Fine. Just..." I press my fingers to my temples. The room spins slightly. Too much champagne. Too much him. "I'm done for tonight."
Amanda's excitement dims into concern. "Babe, we just got here. Are you feeling sick?"
"Tired." The lie slides out smooth. "Long week. I shouldn't have come out."
Elio's already scanning the room, calculating exit routes. "Car's in the back lot. I'll bring it around."
The Porsche glides to a stop inside the compound gates, and Elio kills the engine. For a long moment, neither of us moves.
"I'm sorry." His voice is rough, heavy with something that sounds a lot like fear. "I shouldn't have left you alone. That was—"
"Elio." I turn to face him, and in the glow of the security lights, I can see the tension carved into his jaw.
"You've been watching my back since I was nineteen years old.
You've driven me to a thousand places, kept a thousand secrets, and never once made me feel like a burden. You don't owe me an apology."
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "If Dmitri Baganov tells Pietro I left you unguarded, I'm dead either way."
The name hits me like a bucket of ice water.
"What did you just say?"
Elio's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "Baganov. The man in the club. That was Dmitri Baganov."
I squeeze my eyes shut so hard I see stars.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Dmitri Baganov. Heir to the Chicago Bratva. The man my brothers have been negotiating an alliance with for months. The man who kissed my hand at the gala a month ago.
The man I was about to let strip me naked in his private room.
"I thought you knew each other," Elio says carefully. "The way he looked at you, the way he—"
"We don't." My voice comes out strangled. "We met once. Briefly. I didn't recognize him."
How? How the hell didn't I recognize him? Those pale eyes, that voice like gravel wrapped in silk, the way he moved like he owned every inch of space around him. "Vittoria." Elio's tone shifts, and I know he's reading my panic. "What happened up there?"
"Nothing." The lie tastes sour. "Nothing happened. We talked. That's it."
His silence tells me he doesn't believe a word, but Elio has always known when to push and when to let things go.
"You need to say nothing about tonight," I tell him. "Not to Pietro, not to anyone. Capisce?"
He nods once. "Understood."
I grab my heels from the floorboard and shove open the car door. The cobblestones are cold under my bare feet as I walk toward the side entrance, but I barely feel them.
My mind is spinning, replaying every moment from the club like a horror movie I can't pause.
I'd been so ready. So desperate to feel something other than grief that I'd walked into a wolf's den and bared my throat.
The security panel beeps as I press my thumb to the scanner, and the door clicks open. Inside, the compound is quiet.
I make it halfway to the stairs and climb toward my room, my legs heavy with exhaustion.
Tomorrow, I'll bury this night. I'll go back to my screens and my security feeds and my carefully constructed walls. I'll pretend Dmitri Baganov is nothing more than a name on an alliance contract.
But as I close my bedroom door behind me, I can still feel his hands on my waist.
Still taste champagne and danger on my lips.
Still hear his voice in my ear: Last chance.
I should have run faster.