19. Milonga Night
Milonga Night
Nichole
Dinner is quiet, the clinking of silverware against fine china filling the vast dining room. I take another bite of my meal, barely tasting it, my thoughts already on the night ahead.
I set my fork down and glance at Antonio. “I’m going out tonight.”
His expression remains unreadable, though I don’t miss the brief pause before he takes another sip of his wine. Before he can respond, Dante leans back in his chair, eyeing me with mild amusement. “Where to?”
I resist the urge to sigh. “None of your concern.”
His lips twitch like he’s suppressing a smirk. “I’m only asking because I don’t have any plans tonight.” He gestures vaguely. “Maybe we can tag along.”
I arch a brow. “We?”
“You know, family bonding,” he says, feigning innocence.
I scoff. “I’m not looking to be chaperoned tonight.”
Dante’s expression shifts slightly—something calculating flickers behind his gaze, but he doesn’t push further. He leans back into his seat, stabbing at his plate as if the conversation is already forgotten.
Antonio, on the other hand, gives me a single nod. “Understood.”
Simple. No prying. No resistance.
I offer him a small smile before finishing my meal.
After dinner, I retreat to my room, anticipation thrumming through me. I step into my closet, pulling out the dress I bought—a deep, sultry red that clings to my curves in all the right places. I run my fingers over the fabric, feeling a spark of something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Excitement.
For one night, I get to be just a woman. Not a Beretti. Not the daughter of a powerful man. Just me.
And that’s exactly what I need.
The venue is just as I remember it—warm, vibrant, and alive. The moment I step inside, a rush of nostalgia washes over me, mingling with the rich scent of aged wood, candle wax, and the faint spice of cologne and perfume.
The walls are lined with deep mahogany, the floor polished from years of dancers gliding across its surface. Dim, golden lighting casts a sultry glow over the room, reflecting off the ornate chandeliers overhead.
A live band plays in the corner, their melody sultry and rich, each note carrying a weight that seeps into my bones. The air is thick with movement, with passion.
Men and women move in perfect synchrony on the dance floor, their bodies entwined in a silent conversation of fluid motion and unspoken desire.
This place is more than just a venue—it’s a sanctuary. A world of its own, untouched by the chaos outside.
As I move further in, familiar faces turn in my direction, smiles of recognition greeting me. I exchange a few polite nods, murmured hellos, until I spot the owner near the bar. His weathered face lights up at the sight of me, his thick mustache twitching as he approaches.
“Nichole,” he says warmly, his voice deep with familiarity. “It’s been too long.”
I return his smile. “It really has.”
His gaze softens, and in an instant, I know what’s coming. “I was so sorry to hear about your father.” His voice is lower now, filled with sincerity. “He was a good man.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod. “He was.”
For a moment, there’s nothing but the music and the weight of his words.
Then, the owner claps me lightly on the shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. “He’d be happy to see you here tonight. You know this place was as much his home as it was yours.”
I exhale softly. “That’s why I came.”
He gives me a knowing nod before gesturing toward the bar. “First drink’s on the house.”
I thank him and make my way over, ordering a glass of red wine. As I take the first sip, I let my gaze wander over the room, drinking in every detail, every memory.
I was no more than a pre-teen when my father first brought me here. Too young, by most standards, to be allowed into a place like this, but my father had always been good friends with the owner. Rules bent for men like him.
And from the moment I stepped onto this very floor, I had been mesmerized.
I close my eyes for just a second, letting the music consume me.
Tonight, I am not a Beretti.
I am just Nichole.
The music shifts, easing into a familiar melody that tugs at something deep within me. My father and I used to dance to this song every time we came here. The first notes wrap around me like an embrace, drawing me further into the moment, into the past.
Then, a voice—smooth, deep, and entirely unexpected—breaks through my reverie.
“Dance with me.”
The heat of his presence brushes against my back before I even turn. My breath catches.
He stands behind me, dressed in a crisp, dark suit that clings to his powerful frame in all the right ways. The open collar of his shirt teases at the strength beneath, his bronzed skin catching the dim golden light.
But it’s his eyes—those piercing, ocean-blue depths—that pin me in place. They hold an intensity that steals the air from my lungs, locking me in his gravitational pull.
His presence here should unnerve me. I’ve never seen him at a milonga before, never once caught him in this world that has always belonged to me and my father.
But I don’t question it.
Because right now, standing before me, he looks like he belongs.
Like he was made for this.
The room feels smaller, the people around us fading into the background. I say nothing. I just take him in—the sharp angles of his face, the roughness of his jawline, the way his suit molds to his broad shoulders.
There’s something almost hypnotic about him.
I don’t ask why he’s here. I don’t demand answers.
The moment is too perfect, too charged.
The music swells, beckoning.
And without a word, I stand, letting the natural pull between us guide me.
His gaze never leaves mine as I step into him.
My pulse pounds, but my body moves instinctively, slipping into the rhythm that has been ingrained in me since childhood. Damian follows effortlessly, his hand finding its place against my waist, strong and sure.
A slow inhale. A steady exhale.
Then, we move nnd just like that, the rest of the world ceases to exist.
The first step is instinct. The second is surrender.
Damian moves with a confidence that leaves no room for hesitation. The second our bodies align, he takes control—not forceful, not overbearing, but with an unwavering command that makes me forget how to do anything except follow.
His hand is firm against my waist, guiding me into the first slow, deliberate step. His other hand clasps mine, fingers wrapping around mine in a way that is possessive, yet reverent.
I don’t have to think. I don’t have to lead. For the first time in my life, I let go.
The music dictates our rhythm, sultry and intoxicating, but it’s his presence—his unrelenting, consuming presence—that has my heart hammering.
Damian doesn’t just dance. He dominates. Every step is purposeful, every movement calculated, yet impossibly smooth. It’s as if he’s spent his entire life mastering this dance, but that’s not what leaves me breathless.
It’s the way he dances it with me. As if no one else in the world exists.
His eyes never waver, locked onto mine with an intensity that sends heat spiraling low in my stomach. There’s no hesitation, no moment of uncertainty.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly where to place me, exactly how to mold our bodies together like we’ve done this a thousand times before. And I—I can’t breathe.
His palm burns through the thin fabric of my dress, pressing firmly into my lower back as he leads me into a deep, sensuous lunge. My leg hooks around his, and his grip tightens, keeping me balanced, keeping me his.
My pulse pounds between my legs.
I shouldn’t be this turned on by a dance.
But I am.
His movements are exquisite, seamless, effortlessly seductive. He matches my every shift, my every breath, his body speaking the same unspoken language as mine. Each turn, each pivot, each subtle shift of weight—it’s precise, deliberate, yet so undeniably fluid.
My fingers tighten around his shoulder as he pulls me flush against him, chest to chest, heat to heat. His breath skates over my lips, but he doesn’t kiss me. No. He draws it out. Torturously slow.
Every time I think I can anticipate his next move, he surprises me. He commands the floor, but never in a way that overshadows me. No, he enhances me. Lifts me. Pushes me to surrender in ways I never have before. And God help me, I do.
A sharp spin has me arching backward, my body bowing like an offering as his arm supports me with effortless strength. My dress rides up, the fabric slipping higher along my thigh, but I don’t care.
Because the look in his eyes—the way they devour me, the way they hold me captive—tells me that he does.
Heat pools between my legs, a throb so intense it’s almost unbearable.
I am completely wrecked by this man.
By the time the music slows, guiding us into the final pose, I am utterly breathless. One last step, one last dip, one last intoxicating second of being completely wrapped in him.
And then—stillness.
Our bodies are entangled, my chest rising and falling against his. My lips part, but no words come. Because I have none.
I should say something. I should pull away. But I don’t. Because in this moment, I don’t want to.
Damian holds me there, his hand splayed possessively over my lower back, his breathing controlled, steady—while mine is anything but. He studies me, drinking in every inch of my face, every emotion written across my expression. Then, finally, he smirks.
Slow. Knowing.
Satisfaction flickers behind those impossibly blue eyes.
“I thought you weren’t planning on dancing tonight.” His voice is low, teasing, yet laced with something far more dangerous.
I swallow hard, my pulse roaring in my ears. Because I can’t lie. Not after this. Not when my body still trembles from the way he touched me. Not when I know—without a shadow of a doubt—that this dance, this moment, has just changed everything.
Forever.
The second the last note of the tango fades, the entire room erupts into applause.