Chapter Two
Cassian
My shoes hit the lobby marble, and the doorman straightens so fast his elbow cracks against the panel behind him. My stride pushes a draft across the hallway. A worker steps behind a column so I won’t catch him leaning. Good. I’m not in the mood to tolerate uselessness.
“Get Gio,” I say while passing the main security podium. “West bar stock came in short.”
The guard fumbles for his radio, nearly dropping it. A regular in a cheap blazer angles toward me with a grin stretched too wide.
“Mr. Morelli, didn’t expect—”
“Straighten your seam,” I hiss. “You look unprepared.”
He tugs his jacket, startled, and steps back with a weak chuckle. Another patron tries to intercept me—different suit, same hunger for connections.
“Sir. Wanted to congratulate—”
“You’re blocking the walkway.”
He moves aside with stiff limbs. I’ve never been the social type, and it’s better for people to figure it out early.
The music from the main floor presses through the corridor. The lighting shifts as I turn the corner; gold beams break across the room, reflecting off bottles behind the bar. My staff tightens their stances, and the patrons’ shoulders go rigid. My establishments always carry that instinct around me—a need to show respect before I ask for it.
Then I step onto the upper walkway overlooking the secondary stage. A stripper steps out, not one I’ve seen before. I never pay attention to the rotation. I created this place, but the entertainment never mattered to me. It belongs to the patrons. I can’t bother with anything shared among men who scrape for scraps of excitement. Then she walks into the light, and something in my chest pulls taut without warning.
I stop moving.
Her first few steps don’t match the usual practiced confidence I see from veterans, there’s hesitation under her movement.
My attention locks on her features before she reaches the center of the platform. A small mole rests beneath her right eye. A faint scar traces the inside of her ankle. None of it should strike me, yet each detail embeds itself in my mind faster than I can reject it.
I try to force myself not to react, but my cock gets hard instantly. She’s so beautiful it’s almost impossible for my body not to notice.
Then the crowd reacts to her.
A man leans forward, practically salivating. Someone in the back adjusts his pants, watching her tits bounce. Their reactions make heat crawl up my neck. I rarely experience anything unfamiliar, yet this is new.
Jealousy.
I refuse to name it inside my head, but my body recognizes it before I do. The lights drift across her skin, creating patterns that draw even more attention from the idiots around her. A muscle near my temple burns. When the track ends, my focus snaps free enough for thought to return.
Barely.
The nearest floor manager nearly collides with a server when I stop in front of him.
“Her,” I hiss. “When did she start?”
He gulps. “Two or three months ago. Still new.”
“Name.”
“Anya Martin. Stage name is Rose.”
My heartbeat knocks once against my ribs. Like the name holds more weight than just a name. Irritating.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “Bring her file to my office. Everything reviewed.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll—”
I cut him off. “She ends her shifts after tonight. No more performing here. This is final.”
I turn, scanning the platform again. She slips backstage. Men keep staring at the empty pole as if disappointed she vanished. Fuck. The homicidal urges I’m feeling right now are not normal.
This is the last time they see her on that stage.
I’ll make sure of it.
The manager hesitates. “Why? Did she do something to bother you?”
I. Hate. Being. Questioned. With one blazing glare, he steps back as if heat scorches his shirt.
“I’m sorry. I only meant…” He shifts his weight. “I just know she needs this job.”
The words are too familiar…that homicidal feeling returns again.
“How do you know that?” It comes out rough.
His eyes widen, and his knees almost give out, but he resists collapsing. “Sir, all the dancers here need this job badly. That’s all I meant. Nothing else.” He lowers his head, staring at his shoes.
The emotions mixing in my chest feel corrosive. If she leaves here, she’ll walk straight into another club. A cheaper one. Somewhere with weak security and men who don’t understand limits. That can’t happen, and it won’t fucking happen.
I head toward my office. My thoughts don’t line up cleanly. They never stutter like this. People depend on my decisions. I don’t falter.
Yet something in me keeps drifting back to the moment she stepped into the light.
A mole under her eye.
A scar at her ankle.
A small heart tattoo on her shoulder.
Years of nothing. Years of cold. Years of distance from every instinct that makes a man feel anything.
And now this.
The Morelli curse.
The one that made my father so obsessed with a woman who wanted nothing to do with him, to the point he killed himself when she ran away.
Has it finally caught me?
All I know is that Anya Martin isn’t stepping on any stage again. Not in my club. And definitely not in anyone else’s.
And if this is the so-called curse, then I welcome it with open arms. I’ve been waiting for it. Because while my father had been the type of man to let his little doll go—
she’ll never be fucking able to escape me.