18. A Dangerous Game
A Dangerous Game
Damian
The moment I step into the dream mansion, I find Nichole waiting for me. She’s perched on the arm of a velvet chaise, one leg crossed over the other, idly swirling the wine in her glass as if she hasn’t been anticipating my arrival.
But the second her eyes meet mine, the carefully crafted nonchalance disappears, replaced by something deeper. Something knowing.
I smirk. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Her lips curve slightly, but she doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilts her head, studying me. “You made Dante sweat tonight.”
I let out a slow breath, reliving the moment in my head. The way Dante’s eyes darkened with barely restrained rage. The stiffness in his movements.
The way his grip tightened on Nichole’s waist like he wanted to prove something. I’d walked away satisfied, knowing I’d put him exactly where I wanted him—off balance.
“I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it,” I murmur, closing the distance between us. “But I didn’t hate it either.”
Nichole shakes her head, exhaling a quiet laugh. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I’m always playing a dangerous game.”
She sighs, setting her glass aside. “Speaking of which, Dante wasted no time warning Real Nichole about you. The second they got in the car, he told her how dangerous you are. How you’re the enemy. How you’d only use her to get to them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And?”
She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “It didn’t work.” Her smile turns wicked. “If anything, she’s even more intrigued now.”
That pulls a low chuckle from my throat. “Is that so?”
“Oh, that’s not even the best part.” She stands, closing the space between us in two slow steps. “You know what she said to him?”
I wait.
She lifts her chin, lowering her voice in an imitation of Real Nichole. “If he’s as dangerous as you say, then maybe you should stop provoking him.”
That makes me laugh. A real one.
“Dante must’ve loved that.”
“Oh, he was furious.” She grins, clearly amused by the thought. “Which means you should be careful. He might start keeping tabs on you… or on her.”
I nod, already expecting as much. “I can handle Dante.” My fingers skim the back of her hand, playing with the delicate bones of her wrist. “Does he know about the milonga?”
Nichole shakes her head. “She didn’t tell him. And she doesn’t want him there. This is something she wants to do alone.”
Alone.
I roll the word around in my head. She might not want Dante there, but she wouldn’t be alone. Not entirely.
She’d have me.
Nichole watches me carefully, sensing my thoughts before I speak them. Then, her lips curve into something playful.
“Do you still remember the dance?”
I smirk. “Only one way to find out?”
As if on cue, the soft, haunting melody of Habanera from Carmen drifts through the room. The baby grand piano in the corner begins to play on its own, the notes weaving through the air like a spell.
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t resist when I guide her into the first steps. The floor beneath us shifts subtly, smooth and polished like a grand ballroom. The walls flicker, growing taller, the chandeliers above casting a golden glow that deepens the shadows around us.
I lead. She follows.
The tango is a dance of power, of control, of seduction.
And we move like we were born for this.
Her body molds to mine, every movement precise, every step deliberate. The music pulses through us, dictating the rhythm of our breath, the press of our hands, the teasing caress of her fingers against my jaw when I twirl her away—only to pull her back just as quickly.
Our eyes never leave each other.
Every motion is charged, a slow burn that builds with each turn, each lingering brush of our bodies.
By the time the final note plays, we aren’t just dancing anymore.
We’re devouring each other.
As the dream settles into a slow, hazy fade, Nichole stays pressed against me, her breath still unsteady, the warmth between us lingering like an unspoken promise. My hands remain on her waist, unwilling to let her go just yet, but the dream is already shifting, signaling our time is running short.
She tilts her head back, gazing up at me with a satisfied smirk. “Try not to get too distracted tomorrow.”
I smirk right back. “I could say the same to you.”
Instead of pulling away, she traces her fingers lightly down the front of my shirt, her expression turning thoughtful.
“She bought a new dress for the milonga,” she muses, her voice soft, almost teasing.
“It’s red—deep, striking, the kind that demands attention the second you walk into a room.
It fits like a second skin, and the moment she put it on, she knew…
” she pauses, tilting her head playfully.
“...She knew she’d be the most stunning woman there. ”
I hum in appreciation, my mind already conjuring the image. “I don’t doubt that.” My fingers skim the curve of her spine, my voice dipping lower. “A dress like that deserves the right kind of presence beside it.”
Her lips curve. “Which is why you’ll need to wear black.”
I raise a brow.
She grins. “A fitted suit, dark as sin. Crisp, sleek, but not too formal with a red handkerchief in the pocket. Something that makes it look like we belong together without trying too hard.”
The corner of my mouth lifts as I slide my fingers under her chin, tilting her face up to mine. “You want us to look like a pair.”
She shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but there’s a glint in her eye. “It would be a shame for all that effort to go to waste.”
I chuckle, brushing my thumb over her jaw. “Consider it done.”
The dream starts to pull away, the mansion dissolving at the edges, the warmth of her skin fading beneath my touch. She doesn’t resist it. Instead, she leans in, her lips a breath away from mine.
“I’ll be waiting,” she whispers.
And just like that, she’s gone.
I wake up with only one thought in my mind.
Tomorrow, Real Nichole and I will finally dance.
The moment I wake, I don’t waste time. The warmth of the dream lingers, but reality has already begun setting in. I reach for my phone and dial Enzo. He picks up on the second ring.
“Boss?”
“Be on the lookout for any suspicious vehicles hanging around the property,” I say, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My voice is steady, controlled, but I already know what I’m expecting. “I have a feeling Dante isn’t letting me out of his sight.”
Enzo exhales sharply. “Figured as much. You want me to handle it?”
“Not yet. Confirm first.”
“On it.” The line goes dead.
I move through my morning routine quickly, dressing in a crisp black shirt and dark slacks.
Every movement is calculated, my mind already working through possible contingencies.
Dante isn’t an idiot, but he’s also predictable.
If he thinks he’s keeping tabs on me, then I can use that to my advantage.
By the time I step out, Enzo is waiting downstairs, phone in hand. His expression tells me everything I need to know before he even speaks.
“Got eyes on a car that fits the bill,” he says. “It’s been parked a block down for the last twenty minutes. One of Dante’s guys, from what I can tell.”
I nod. “Good.”
Enzo frowns. “Good?”
I smirk. “It means he’s playing right into my hands.”
Within the next ten minutes, three identical black SUVs pull into the driveway. I don’t need to explain the plan to my men—they already know. I slide into the middle car, Enzo at my side.
As soon as we roll out, the tail follows.
“Right on cue,” Enzo mutters, watching through the side mirror.
I don’t respond. I simply lean back, waiting.
Three blocks later, we initiate the split. The SUVs veer off in different directions at the same time. Enzo keeps his eyes locked on the mirror, tracking which car the tail follows.
Sure enough, they pick the wrong one.
I wait for the confirmation. Thirty seconds. A minute.
Then, Enzo’s phone vibrates. He answers, listening for only a few seconds before nodding. “Tail’s following the wrong car. We’re clear.”
I smirk, glancing out the window as the city stretches before us, open and free.
“Now,” I murmur, my voice smooth, confident. “Let’s get to work.”