19. Milonga Night #3
I exhale a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”
“Who said I was flattering you?”
I don’t have a response for that.
The moment lingers, stretching between us like an unspoken agreement.
Damian lifts his glass. “Another drink?”
I hesitate for a second. I should leave. I should get up and go before I let this dangerous pull sink any deeper.
But I don’t.
Instead, I find myself nodding.
“One more.”
The night stretches on, the conversation shifting from playful banter to something undeniably intense. Damian never gives me full answers, only enough to intrigue me—to make me want more.
I should be leaving. I should have left two drinks ago.
Yet, here I am, watching him over the rim of my glass, completely aware of the fact that I am enjoying this.
“How do you do that?” I ask, setting my drink down.
His brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”
I gesture vaguely. “This. You answer questions with more questions. You speak in circles, yet somehow, I feel like I know you better than I should.”
His lips curve into that same maddening smirk. “That’s an interesting way to say you’re intrigued.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “Do you ever give a straight answer?”
He leans forward slightly, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. “Only when it matters.”
I swallow, suddenly feeling too warm.
We talk a little longer, the conversation taking deeper turns—music, family, the weight of expectations, the past we try to outrun. Somewhere along the way, I realize I want to know him. Not just the smooth-talking man sitting across from me, but the one who exists underneath it all.
The one I feel I should already know.
Before I realize it, the venue is clearing out, the music softening, the night stretching toward its inevitable end.
Damian stands, reaching a hand toward me. “Come.”
I hesitate only for a moment before slipping my fingers into his, allowing him to lead me toward the entrance.
The cool night air greets us as the valet pulls my car around. The world outside feels too sharp, too real after the hazy warmth of the milonga.
Damian turns to me, his grip still light but deliberate.
“I want to see you again,” he says, his voice low, smooth. Certain. “And not by chance.”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek, black card.
The numbers embossed in red practically glow under the streetlight as he presses it into my palm.
“Don’t take too long to use it,” he murmurs.
Something tightens in my chest. A quiet, dangerous anticipation.
His hand lingers over mine for just a second longer before he lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of my hand. The touch is light, barely there, yet it sends a shiver through me.
Then, with a final glance, he turns and disappears into the night.
I exhale, finally looking down at the card.
My fingers tighten around it as a realization settles deep in my bones.
I want more.
I slide into my car, gripping the steering wheel, still feeling the warmth of his lips against my skin.
As I pull away from the curb, my mind is still on him—his presence, his words, the way he danced like he already knew every inch of me.
I don’t notice Dante stepping out of the darkness, witnessing the whole thing with vengeance in his eyes.
Dante
I step out of the shadows as Nichole’s car disappears down the street, my hands clenched into tight fists. My breath comes slow, steady, but inside, a storm brews.
I knew something was off at dinner.
The way she spoke. The way she was in a rush to leave.
I could feel it. That itch at the back of my mind that told me she was hiding something.
And now I’ve seen it for myself.
I wasn’t prepared for the reality of it—to watch her in his arms, moving like she belonged there.
My jaw tightens as I replay the scene. The way she danced with him, letting him lead her like she trusted him. Like she knew him.
Then the way they sat together, leaned in close, talking in hushed voices as if the world around them had disappeared.
But it was that final exchange that did it.
The way she clutched that black card in her hand, how her breath hitched when he kissed her fingers, whispering something in that low, easy tone—something that made her pause, tilt her head slightly, her lips parting before she caught herself.
She’s interested in him.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
For a second, I think—she’s working for him.
But I shake my head. No. She’s too naive for that.
Too stupid.
This isn’t some ploy. She has no idea what she’s doing.
And that makes it even worse.
She’s being played.
I exhale sharply, forcing the rage simmering beneath my skin to settle. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t see Damian for what he is—a threat. A man who would burn everything to the ground if it meant getting what he wanted.
And now he’s set his sights on her.
My father might have a soft spot for her, but I don’t.
If she thinks she can flirt with fire, fine.
But I’ll make damn sure she gets burned.