Prologue Dominic #2
I move between them, breaking their stare, my focus shifting to the woman.
Anton—idiot that he is—will slink back to his table.
I’m sure of it. He doesn’t have the balls to take me on.
One night, when his arrogance spiraled out of control, Anton picked a fight that could have ended very badly.
My guys and I pulled him out before things got ugly.
He owes me for that, and I don’t let him forget it.
“Lena. That’s your name, right?” I glance at her, then make a subtle gesture toward the stairs leading to my office. “Please,” I say softly.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” she snaps, her voice sharp like a blade.
I freeze mid-step, my hand still in the air, not my intention to touch her.
But I pull it back slowly. I don’t break eye contact.
I want her to see I’m not a threat. But I’m not backing down, either.
After a beat, she moves. Just a step in the direction I pointed.
But not before shooting Anton one last look, a smirk curling her lips, dark and dangerous.
Yup. She hates his guts.
I walk through the club with Lena at my side, fearless, unflinching, and thankfully, without any more fireworks.
Once we step into my office, the music fades to a dull throb behind the door.
Low lighting casts long shadows across polished wood and dark leather, wrapping the room in a quiet tension.
My attention sharpens, zeroing in on the woman in front of me. I gesture to a chair.
She stays standing. Defiant. Daring me to make the next move.
“Do you want to tell me what the hell that was back there?” My voice is low, part irritation, part curiosity. She exhales, clutching her bag like it’s the only thing grounding her.
“Thanks for the rescue, but I can take care of myself.”
“Sure you can.” I lean against the edge of my desk, slipping a hand into my pocket. “That’s why you ended up pinned to a wall, by Anton?”
She glares at me.
“That’s between me and him,” she snaps. “You shouldn’t have stepped in.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Next time, Sassy, don’t come stirring shit in my clubs, unless you’re ready for me to deal with it. Let tonight be your lesson.”
She scoffs, chin lifted in defiance.
“My name’s not Sassy. And you don’t get to lecture me.” Her voice cuts like glass. “The only thing I learned tonight,” she says, “is that you’ve got an ego problem, and a habit of protecting your VIPs. That’s why you dragged me up here, right? To cover for him?”
She steps toward the door, her mouth a hard line. I lower my voice, trying not to light the fuse.
“I just want to clear things up about the filming. You do realize how many laws you might’ve broken, right?”
“Oh, really? Now you’re being dramatic. It’s not illegal to have a drink at a bar.”
“No, but filming someone without their consent in a private venue is. And my club qualifies. It’s called invasion of privacy.
In some places, even voyeurism. And if you planned to publish it?
That’s harassment. Maybe even stalking. Bottom line, you’re on thin ice.
” I pause for dramatic effect. She blinks, just for a second.
“Technically, I saved you from a lawsuit. You should be thanking me.”
Her head tilts slightly, eyes gleaming. “You’re assuming I managed to record something in your club.”
“I’m assuming you’re way too stubborn not to.”
I let a slow breath slip through my nose, steadying myself. “I know you filmed something. And I know I can’t let you walk out of here with it.”
Before she can react, I reach for her bag, pull out her phone, and hold it up. She gasps and lunges for it, but I lift it just out of reach.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” she snaps.
I lean in slightly, lowering my tone.
“I don’t care what story you’re chasing, Sassy. But I don’t let paparazzi screw with my business.”
Her jaw tightens. “For the last time, my name is not Sassy.” She folds her arms, defiant.
“As for your business? Let’s talk about that for a sec.
You’re the city’s favorite playboy, right?
Tabloid regular. Always photographed with a new flavor of the week, while someone else does the real work and keeps the place running. ” I chuckle softly, shaking my head.
“Oh, so you do know a few things about me. And you already think you’ve got me all figured out, huh? Spoken like a true paparazzo.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not a paparazzo. And you’re fucking impossible.”
She lunges for the phone, but I catch her wrist mid-swipe, quick but careful, and just like that, we’re too close.
The air between us shifts. Thickens. For a moment, neither of us moves.
I study her face—fierce eyes, unreadable calm.
Something steady and raw. No bluff. And for a second. I forget why I’m supposed to be angry.
“Whatever you’re after,” I murmur, “it must mean a hell of a lot to you.”
Lena stares me down. Her voice is calm, unwavering. “It does.”
I pause, then slowly press the phone back into her hand, but I don’t release her wrist just yet.
“Delete the footage. Right now,” I say, low and firm. “I’m giving you the chance to do it yourself. Don’t argue. This is the best offer you’re going to get.”
Anton’s dangerous in that polished, power-hungry way that hides the worst type of cruelty. And this woman, beautiful, bold, and far too brave for her own good, clearly has no idea what she’s poking at.
“Careful, Sassy,” I warn. “You might not like what you stir up if you keep messing with Anton.”
Her expression doesn’t soften. “I’m not messing with him. I’m doing my job. My name is Helena Medina. I’m a journalist. And frankly, I’m disgusted by how you treat the people in your club.”
So we’re going with the official tone now. This woman... intrigues me. I pull out my phone as if I want to check what she's saying. A journalist?
I take a step back, letting my eyes sweep over her, slow, unhurried.
She doesn’t strike me as someone who backs down.
But then again, neither do I. My gaze trails down her figure.
A black dress that clings in all the right places, revealing enough to spark interest, not enough to give it all away.
Long and toned legs, accentuated by sleek heels.
Hair spilling over one shoulder, in loose, dark waves, a contrast against soft skin that practically glows under the soft office light.
There’s a hint of color in her cheeks, anger, maybe something else.
I let my eyes linger a second too long. By the time I meet hers again, she’s already wearing a smirk, one brow arched in mock amusement.
“Are you done inspecting me, Monti?” Her voice is syrupy sweet. “Or do you need a minute to collect yourself?”
I shift my weight, trying not to show how tightly my fingers are wrapped around my phone. Busted. I roll my shoulders and let a lazy smirk slide into place.
“Relax, Helena. Just making sure that dress isn’t hiding any weapons, besides the obvious ones.”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes, but there it is, a flicker of a smile, quick and unguarded. I step behind my desk and call Alice, my PR lead.
“Hey, Alice. Sorry for the late call. Did you ever hear of a journalist named Helena Medina?”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” she replies. “But give me a few minutes, I’ll do some digging. Is everything okay? Do you need help?”
“Thanks. Nothing burning. This woman was claiming to be a journalist. She was filming in my club. Anyway, have a good night. We’ll be in touch.”
I hang up and glance back at Lena.
“I’m not claiming to be a journalist,” she snaps. “I am one. If your PR rep doesn’t know me, maybe it’s because I don’t waste time covering shallow party gossip or your revolving door of girlfriends.”
I raise an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, so you don’t write about me, but you read about me,” I smirk. “Flattered.”
The tabloids love running stories about me, real or made up. They’ve been obsessed ever since I got back from the Navy and took over the family businesses. Not marrying or settling down only adds fuel to the fire.
“You’re not exactly easy to ignore in this department. I’m sure some would be jealous. Finally, face-to-face with the great Dominic Monti.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Medina. Though these aren’t exactly ideal circumstances.
” I tilt my head. “But what’s with the finally?
Did you ask for a meeting that I refused?
Doesn’t sound familiar. What I do remember is you shoulder-checking me earlier, like I was invisible. No apology. You kept walking.”
She clenches her fist, clearly biting back something sharper.
“Oh, did I hurt you?” Her voice turns sweet, sweet, with venom underneath. “Physically? Or just that fragile playboy pride?”
One brow lifts, like she’s testing my reaction. I can’t help but admire her delivery. She’s good at this.
“I write about serious things, Mr. Monti.”
“And yet...,” I glance down at her bag.“ Here you are. With a hidden phone in your bag, sneaking around and trying to make up a story where there is none.”
I give her a look. “Maybe you like it here more than you’re willing to admit.”
Her eyes flash with irritation. “You really do love the sound of your voice, don’t you?”
I offer a slow, mocking smile. “Can’t help it. Words have a certain charm when I’m the one saying them.” Then I lean in, lowering my voice so it barely grazes her ear.
“Careful, Sassy. Keep this up, and I might start to think you like my attention.”
Lena lets out a short, mocking laugh.
“I already told you my name. And you? Oh, please,” she says, rolling her eyes mid-sentence, “your ego is absolutely fascinating, Monti.”
I place a hand over my heart, pretending to be offended.
“Touché. You’ve hurt me, Sassy.”
But she’s already moving around me, trying to slip by, clearly done with the conversation. I shift my weight, pivoting just enough to block her path, smooth and casual, like I didn’t plan it, but absolutely did. My eyes stay locked on her, like she’s a puzzle I haven’t figured out yet.
Then my phone buzzes with a text from Alice.
“She’s legit. Investigative journalist. Fairly new, but she’s dropped a few solid exposés about fraud, shady businesses, that kind of thing.
If she’s sniffing around us, it’s smarter to talk than shut her out.
Be nice, boss. I’ll follow up with her tomorrow. Let me know how you want to handle it.”
I text back quickly: “Thanks. She was filming some clients—doesn’t look like we’re the target. I’ll find out more. Good night.” I lower the phone and text back: “I’m always nice.”
Then pause and write more. “Just not always patient.”
I look up. Helena’s watching me with the smug satisfaction of someone who knows exactly what that message said.
“Apology accepted,” she says, voice dripping sarcasm.
“I don’t know what apology you’re talking about. But whoever you are, you don’t get to film clients in my club. Next time, I suggest you hold back if you ever want to be welcome here again.”
Her chin lifts, eyes flashing.
“Welcome?” A short, humorless laugh escapes her. “You think that’s what I’m after?”
She takes a step closer.
“Here’s a thought, since we’re handing out suggestions, maybe start by checking how your VIPs treat the women who work here. You’re busy pouring champagne upstairs while things get real ugly downstairs.”
My eyes narrow, but she’s already tapping at her phone.
She deletes the footage with quick movements, jaw tight like she’s biting back a comment.
Then she runs a hand through her hair, breathes deep, snatches her bag off the desk, and straightens.
She is not the type to take orders, that much is clear, but for now, she got the message.
“Good night, Monti.”
“Good night, Sassy.”
“Whatever,” she mutters, her eyes lifting in exaggerated exasperation. She turns and walks out, heels tapping a steady rhythm. I watch her go, still throwing daggers at me over her shoulder.
And I can’t help wondering what the hell she’s really after, and why I get the feeling this won’t be the last time we cross paths. I call Leo. “The brunette’s leaving now. Have someone follow her. Discreetly. Make sure she gets home safe.”
I hang up and turn to the window overlooking the club floor. Anton’s VIP table is swarming with girls and drowning in champagne. Lena’s words echo in my head. I text Leo again: “Tomorrow, I want a meeting with all the women on staff. I’m not sure I want Anton showing his face in my club anymore.”