2. Dante
DANTE
V elvet curtains part with the ease of muscle memory, their edges brushing over my shoulders as I step inside.
It’s warm in here, not with smoke or rot, but with money and sex and all the terrible things that live between them.
A woman’s laugh, high and indulgent, from somewhere behind the beaded curtain to my left, rolls over me.
The foyer glows in old-world red and gold, every surface polished to a quiet gleam, from the brass fixtures above to the mahogany floor beneath my shoes.
I like places that don't pretend to be anything they're not.
This one never did.
La Rosa Bianca is Nuova Speranza’s most discreet, most expensive little palace of sin, where men forget the weight of their names, and women remind them how it feels to be touched like gods.
My coat slides from my shoulders, caught by Marla before I even have to lift a finger.
She’s older, painted to perfection, and loyal to the bone.
She works here, has for years, and knows better than most how to navigate this place without losing her dignity.
While not in charge, no one lasts long here without earning her tolerance.
She smiles at me in that way she always does, like she’s both amused and resigned, as she signals for a whiskey.
"Your usual?"
"I want someone new tonight," I say, brushing a hand over the front of my jacket as I glance around the parlor. "Something different."
Her eyes narrow a fraction. "Difficult different, or dangerous different?"
"I’ll let you know," I reply, taking the glass she offers without breaking stride.
The liquor slides down my throat smooth and hot, cutting through the soft haze that clings to this place like incense.
Release isn’t what I’m chasing tonight.
In fact, my mind is set on someone who can indulge my need to control ever since I left the bar.
Sometimes I want a fight.
Sometimes I want softness.
Sometimes, I want to watch a girl unravel and know that it was my voice, my hands, that made her forget who she was for a little while.
Tonight, I want a mouth that doesn’t ask questions.
I want a girl who doesn’t look away.
I trail past the velvet divan, past a couple curled together.
The woman in his lap wears nothing but a gold chain and a smile.
She looks up when I pass, eyes glinting, but I don’t stop.
I’ve seen her before.
She's far too rehearsed.
I want someone whose edges haven’t been sanded down yet.
Around the corner toward the mirrored hall, I spot tonight’s fix.
She’s standing near the far column, hair dark and loose around her shoulders.
She’s laughing at something another girl says, but not softly.
It’s a real laugh, head thrown back slightly, mouth parted, like she doesn’t care who’s watching.
Which, of course, means I watch her.
There’s a man already approaching.
He’s tall, well-dressed, expensive in the way nouveau men are when they’ve just come into money and haven’t yet learned how to carry it.
His watch catches the light.
His posture is confident, but not careful.
He taps her arm, speaks low.
She tilts her head politely.
She’s about to nod, probably out of habit.
"Wait."
She turns, and her eyes meet mine.
At the same time, the man frowns, glancing over his shoulder. "Excuse me?"
"She’s not for you," I say as I finish the last of my whiskey, the smoky burn sliding down my throat.
I set the glass on a passing tray without breaking eye contact.
The man turns, blinks at me as though he’s still computing what I just said.
He’s older, dressed in the kind of suit that’s meant to signal money, but all I see is new wealth trying too hard to impress.
The tie is loud, the watch a touch too bright, and the scent of his cologne announces his insecurity long before he opens his mouth.
His hand is still planted on the girl’s hip, fingers spread in the way men touch things they think they’ve already bought.
"I was here first," he says, puffing up, like that changes anything.
"No," I reply, unsmiling, voice quiet but final. "You were just earlier."
He stares, the tension coiling in his shoulders now, like he’s trying to decide whether to escalate or fold.
He clearly doesn’t know who I am—or worse, he does and thinks I won’t do anything about it.
Marla steps in before the idiot can make the night more memorable for all of us.
"Is there a problem?" she asks sweetly, her gaze flicking between us with the ease of a woman who’s smoothed over far bloodier things.
The man turns to her, clearly emboldened.
"Yes. I was speaking with her first, and now this guy?—"
"This guy," she interrupts smoothly, "is Dante Salvatore."
The man stills.
His mouth opens.
Then closes.
His hands twitch slightly, like he wants to argue but doesn’t know whether his jaw is worth the risk.
I step forward, taking the last few feet between me and the girl.
Her gaze doesn’t drop, not even slightly.
Good.
I’m sick of girls who act like prey. "You ready?" I ask her.
Her lips curve slowly. "I am now."
I lift a hand, which she takes.
The man mutters something under his breath and walks away.
Marla doesn’t follow him.
She just watches us go, a little shake of her head betraying the fact that she’ll probably double his rate next time.
The girl leads me toward the stairwell, and I let her go first.
Not out of courtesy, but because I like the view.
Her hips sway just enough to make me wonder if she does this for effect, or if it’s simply how she moves.
Her legs are long.
Her heels are too high.
I don’t ask her name.
I’ll get it later, if I still care after.
The private rooms upstairs are soundproofed and scented with lavender, though I’ll never understand why.
I prefer the scent of sweat and whatever perfume clings to skin after midnight.
She closes the door behind us, but I don’t go for her just yet.
I lean back against the door, hands in my pockets, and let the silence stretch.
She’s waiting for a command, or at least a suggestion.
Instead, I study her.
She shifts slightly. "Something wrong?"
"No," I say, voice low. "Just deciding where to start."
Her eyes darken, just a little.
I see the hint of intrigue in the way she straightens, not because I told her to, but because something in my voice made her want to.
I incline my head just a little, satisfied that she’ll do just fine for the night.
And I haven’t even gotten her out of that dress yet.
She moves like she’s been trained to please, slow and sinuous, fingers grazing her own thigh like she’s performing for me.
But I don’t want a performance. "Strip," I say.
She hesitates just long enough for me to take two steps forward and grip her chin between my fingers, not hard, but firm enough that her breath catches.
"I said," I repeat, "strip."
This time, she obeys me, her fingers moving quickly.
The dress pools at her ankles, leaving her in pale lace, trembling a little.
She doesn’t look at me, but I see the flush rising up her neck.
I shrug off my coat, toss it over the chair, unbutton my shirt slowly enough to make her squirm.
Her eyes flick to the outline of my belt, but I don’t undress fully.
I take my time, watching her stand there in her lingerie, waiting, her chest rising fast.
She’s used to men who grovel.
Who beg.
Who pay for the illusion of being wanted.
I don’t pay for anything I can take.
I step in close and slide my hand behind her neck, pulling her toward me.
My mouth crashes over hers.
She gasps, and I use the sound to slip my tongue between her lips.
She tastes like cheap wine.
But as her hands rise to grip my shoulders, the face of Gianna Rossi appears behind my eyes.
Her smirk, her red dress with slit, the glint in her eyes that dared me to want her.
And fuck, I do.
Even now, it’s her I feel under my fingers, not this nameless girl panting against my mouth.
Gianna, who would spit in my drink and still let me fuck her on the dining room table.
I growl and spin the girl toward the bed, pressing her face into the mattress.
She gasps but doesn’t protest as I tug her panties down her thighs.
I push her legs apart, fingers gliding up the inside of her thigh.
She’s wet already.
Undoing my belt, I grip her hip with one hand and guide myself to her entrance with the other, teasing the tip along her folds before shoving in with one deep thrust.
She cries out, and I grab a fistful of her hair to keep her exactly where I want her.
Her body is tight, slick, clenching around me, but it isn’t her I see.
It’s Gianna—mouth open in shock, nails biting into my shoulders, voice cracking as she tries to keep her pride from falling apart beneath my hands.
I see her glaring up at me, even as her legs wrap around my waist.
I palm the girl’s ass, squeezing hard, then slap it once, sharp enough to make her jolt.
She moans like she’s been waiting for someone to stop pretending to be nice.
"Turn over," I growl, pulling out.
She scrambles to obey, hair clinging to her cheek, eyes glassy with need.
I grab her thighs and drag her to the edge of the bed.
Her knees fall open.
I close my eyes for half a breath and summon the only image that will finish this.
Gianna would be defiant, furious, daring me to make her feel this good.
Her lips would be curled into that half-smirk that says she knows exactly what she’s doing, even as her back arches and she gasps my name without meaning to.
I imagine the way her body would fight me even as it begged for more.
No surrender.
No submission.
Just fire.
I thrust back in, hard and deep.
The girl beneath me cries out again, louder this time, clutching at the sheets.
But in my head, it’s Gianna’s thighs I’m spreading wider.
Gianna’s nails clawing down my back. Gianna’s voice breaking as I drive into her like I’m trying to erase every man who came before me.
I press my palm to the girl’s chest, pinning her down, watching her breath stutter and her mouth fall open in a desperate moan.
But it’s not her moan I hear.
I lose myself as the girl’s breath comes in quick, desperate gasps, her body jerking with each thrust.