13. The Game Deepens
The Game Deepens
Damian
I lean against the edge of my desk, rolling the tumbler of whiskey between my fingers, the amber liquid catching the city lights streaming through the windows.
The night had gone exactly as planned. Antonio was flustered. Nichole was intrigued. And now—I have exactly what I need.
My gaze drops to the sealed evidence bag resting on the table. Inside, Antonio’s wine glass gleams beneath the dim light, its delicate curve glinting like a trophy.
It holds more value now than the painting he fought so hard to win. Getting it had been simple. A discreet arrangement with one of the waitresses before the event. A quiet exchange of cash. One clear instruction.
Bring the wine when I approached. Make sure Antonio accepted a glass. Make sure his was left behind.
She followed every step flawlessly, never breaking stride, never drawing attention. Antonio didn’t even notice when she cleared the table, collecting his abandoned glass along with the others.
But I did.
And now, so will the lab.
The vibration of my phone cuts through the quiet, pulling me from the thought. I set the glass down and answer without hesitation.
“Go ahead.”
A low, gruff voice filters through the line. “It’s done. Got a toothbrush from the girl’s bathroom. This should be enough.”
A slow smile tugs at my lips.
Good.
Two samples. One answer.
Soon, I’ll know if Antonio is really Nichole’s father.
I end the call and sink deeper into my chair, the leather creaking beneath me as I exhale and take another sip of whiskey. The warmth hits my throat, smooth and steady, grounding me in the moment.
The night isn’t over.
Not yet.
Because whether Antonio realizes it or not, he just made his first mistake.
The warmth of the dream mansion envelops me the moment I step inside. The familiar scent of aged wood and something faintly floral lingers in the air, a welcoming contrast to the cold, calculated world I left behind.
And just as expected—she’s waiting for me.
Nichole leans against the velvet chaise by the fireplace, a knowing smile playing at her lips. Her golden hair catches the soft glow of the firelight, casting warm reflections across her features.
“You’re late,” she teases, crossing her arms.
I smirk, making my way toward her. “I had things to take care of.”
Her eyes spark with curiosity, but she doesn’t pry—not yet. Instead, she straightens, stepping toward me with that easy grace of hers, her excitement barely contained.
“I have a report for you,” she says, her tone light, playful.
I chuckle. “Should I be concerned?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Not at all. If anything, I think you made quite the impression.”
I arch a brow. “Oh?”
She nods, stepping even closer, just enough that I can feel the warmth of her body through the thin space between us. “She’s been thinking about you,” Nichole murmurs. “More than she probably realizes.”
That gets my attention.
I tilt my head, watching her carefully. “And what exactly has she been thinking?”
Nichole’s smile deepens, full of quiet mischief. “She finds you… intriguing. She wasn’t expecting to see you at the auction, but now she can’t quite get you out of her head.”
I exhale slowly, letting that sink in. Good.
Then, just as quickly, I regain my focus. “Do you know where she’s planning to go next?”
Nichole sighs, tapping a finger against her lips. “That’s the tricky part. She’s still deciding. Valentina suggested a few things, but nothing has been set in stone.”
I nod, already considering my next move. I’ll wait.
I’d rather strike when the timing is perfect.
Nichole watches me, her expression softening. “You’re thinking too much again.”
I smirk. “That’s what I do.”
She hums, reaching for my hand and tugging me toward the fireplace. “Sit with me.”
I let her guide me, settling onto the plush sofa beside her. The flames dance in the hearth, their glow casting flickering shadows across the room.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
She leans into me slightly, and I instinctively wrap an arm around her, pulling her closer.
“You know,” I murmur, “that massage of yours had me feeling so relaxed when I woke up, it was almost like I actually got one.”
Nichole laughs softly, resting her head against my shoulder. “I told you I was good.”
I chuckle, my fingers tracing slow circles against her arm. “I might need another session sometime.”
She tilts her head up, her eyes meeting mine. “Oh? Are you requesting another appointment, Mr. LaCampanella?”
I smirk. “I suppose I am.”
Her smile lingers, but there’s something softer in her gaze now, something deeper.
She reaches for my hand, her touch deliberate, her expression unreadable.
"Come with me," she says simply.
There’s something different in her tone, something that piques my curiosity. Without hesitation, I let her lead me toward the dream room, the heavy wooden door standing tall before us.
The moment we step inside, the world shifts.
The polished floors beneath me turn dark and glossy, the scent of aged wood, wine, and faint spices filling the air. Dim lighting casts shadows along the deep red walls, flickering from candles positioned around the room.
The space is intimate, alive.
And then I notice the woman standing in the center.
She is striking—long, toned legs accentuated by a sleek, slit black dress, its low back dipping to reveal smooth skin. The deep crimson of her heels gleams under the low lights, and her dark eyes—sharp, assessing—lock onto mine with a knowing smirk.
I take in the details quickly, but it’s not just the room that’s changed.
I glance down. My usual attire is gone, replaced by a crisp black button-up, sleeves rolled to my elbows, dark slacks perfectly fitted for movement.
Nichole steps beside me, her own transformation just as seamless—a fitted red dress hugging her curves, its slit teasing just enough to remind me that the dream adapts to our desires.
"You planned this," I murmur, my gaze flicking back to her.
She only smiles.
"You need to be ready for the next time you see her," she says, tilting her head toward the instructor.
I arch a brow. "And what exactly am I preparing for?"
Nichole steps closer, placing a hand on my chest. "Real Nichole loves to tango," she explains. "Her uncle—her father in every way that mattered—taught her when she was younger. They used to go to a milonga night once a month. Same bar. Same time. It was their tradition."
I exhale, already seeing where this is going.
"This month will be the first time she’s missed it in ten years," she continues, watching my reaction. "So, she just made plans to go… to honor his memory."
That’s why she’s going.
My mind sharpens, already running through possibilities. The location, the timing—the perfect opportunity.
I turn back to the instructor, who has remained silent, waiting, one hand resting on her hip.
Nichole smiles slyly. "If you want to dance with her that night, you’ll need to know how."
I smirk. "And I suppose you handpicked the best instructor?"
"The best in the world actually," she says smoothly.
The woman steps forward, appraising me. "The dance is not just about movement," she says, her voice rich with a Spanish accent. "It is about control. Connection. Confidence. It is not the follower who makes the dance beautiful—it is the leader."
I roll my shoulders back, stepping onto the dance floor. "Then let’s get started."
Nichole moves back, watching from the edge of the room, her lips curving as she leans against the wall.
The instructor lifts a brow. "You walk onto my floor like a man who thinks he already knows how to lead."
I smirk. "I always know how to lead."
She steps closer, her red heels clicking softly against the floor. "Then show me."
I reach for her hand, feeling the slow burn of anticipation settle deep in my chest.
Because when the moment comes—when I see her again at that bar—
I won’t just be ready.
I’ll make sure she never forgets our first dance.
The instructor’s gaze sharpens as she steps even closer, her posture effortless, yet commanding.
"Tango is not just a dance," she murmurs, circling me slowly. "It is seduction. A battle of dominance. And you…" She trails a fingertip along my shoulder before stepping back. "You think you already know how to lead."
I smirk, my fingers flexing at my sides. "I do."
She lifts a single brow. "We’ll see about that."
Without another word, she steps forward, pressing her body flush against mine.
My hands instinctively find her waist, the curve of her frame molding against me as she grips my wrist, adjusting my hold slightly. "Not too rigid," she murmurs. "You are not forcing her to follow… you are inviting her to."
Nichole watches from the edge of the room, arms crossed, amusement dancing in her gaze.
"First step," the instructor continues. "Always forward. The leader never retreats."
I move, shifting my weight, guiding her with precise, calculated steps.
She follows seamlessly.
"Good," she purrs. "But tango is not just about movement. It is about… connection."
Without warning, she tightens her grip, pulling me in as she pivots effortlessly. The shift in balance forces me to adapt, adjusting instinctively as she tests my ability to maintain control.
I hold my ground, never faltering.
Her eyes gleam. "Better. But you are still thinking too much."
I huff out a low chuckle. "Is that your favorite critique?"
She smirks, her fingers tightening slightly around mine. "It is my only critique. The best leaders do not think… they feel."
The music swells, filling the space between us.
"Again," she commands.
I move.
Step by step, I match her fluidity, my movements turning sharper, more precise.
"Firmer," she instructs, voice low, smooth. "When you take control, she should feel nothing but certainty."
I adjust, reinforcing my lead, exuding the dominance she demands.
Her expression shifts.
Satisfaction.
Pride.
"Yes," she breathes. "That is the power of a true leader."
From the corner of my eye, I catch Nichole’s gaze, something unreadable flickering in her expression.
The lesson continues, each movement pushing me further into the rhythm, into the controlled intensity of the dance.
Because when I find her—when I take Real Nichole onto the dance floor—
She won’t just see me.
She’ll feel me.
The instructor steps back, her expression satisfied.
"You learn quickly," she murmurs, tilting her head. "Good. That means you won’t embarrass yourself."
I smirk. "That was never an option."
She chuckles, giving a nod before turning on her heel and disappearing into the shadows of the dream room.
I roll my shoulders, adjusting my cuffs. The energy of the dance lingers in my muscles, the rhythm still pulsing beneath my skin.
Then Nichole steps forward.
The candlelight casts a golden glow over her skin, the deep red of her dress hugging every curve. But it’s not just how she looks—it’s the way she moves. The slow, deliberate way she steps onto the dance floor, eyes locked onto mine, lips curling into something that’s almost a challenge.
"If you’re going to dance with her," she murmurs, "you should practice with me first."
I study her for a beat, then offer my hand. "I was hoping you’d say that."
She doesn’t hesitate.
Her fingers slide against mine, her body pressing close as she lets me take the lead.
The moment I move, she follows, instinctively adjusting to my rhythm, molding into every step as if she was made to fit against me.
She knows me.
Knows the way I move, the way I hold myself, the way I control.
And for the first time since I stepped into the dream room, I don’t have to think—I just feel.
Nichole lets me guide her, but she doesn’t give in easily. She challenges my lead, her body testing my control, pushing me to prove I can keep up with her.
I do.
With every step, every turn, the air between us thickens.
Her breath is warm against my neck, her scent intoxicating. The tension shifts—no longer just a dance, but something more.
Something dangerous.
Her hand slides up my arm, fingers tracing along the muscle. "I think you’re ready," she murmurs.
I tighten my hold on her waist, dragging her even closer. "Are you sure?"
She exhales a soft laugh. "You tell me."
I don’t.
Instead, I move—faster, sharper, more deliberate.
Her body reacts instantly, meeting me step for step, her confidence unwavering.
By the time the dance slows, I have her backed against the wall, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her lips slightly parted.
I press my palm flat against the surface behind her, caging her in, my eyes locked onto hers.
She doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
And in that charged silence, I realize something.
This wasn’t just about preparing for Real Nichole.
This was for us.
Neither of us move.
The heat of the dance lingers between us, an invisible thread pulling taut, holding us in place. Nichole’s breathing is slow but deep, her body still pressed against mine, her fingers lightly curled against my chest.
She doesn’t push me away.
She doesn’t want to.
But the dream is beginning to shift.
The candles flicker, the warm glow dimming. The air changes—less solid, less real.
Nichole notices it too.
Her fingers tighten slightly, like she’s trying to hold onto this moment for just a little longer. Her gaze lifts to mine, something vulnerable flickering beneath the usual confidence.
I exhale, my thumb brushing lightly along her waist. "I’ll be back," I murmur.
She nods once. "I know."
The dream pulls at me, unraveling, the edges of the world dissolving into darkness.
Nichole’s touch is the last thing I feel before reality yanks me away.
I wake with a sharp inhale.
The weight of the dream lingers, the scent of candle wax and the distant echo of music still clinging to my senses.
But it’s gone.
And now?
It’s time to put everything into motion.
I push myself upright, running a hand through my hair before reaching for my phone. The screen glows in the darkness, the time reading 3:27 AM.
A message is already waiting.
Unknown Number: We have what you asked for. Expect results soon.
I smirk.
Everything is falling into place.
I toss the blanket aside, moving to my feet. The night is far from over.
Because when the sun rises—I’ll be one step closer to having her.