"Put the fucking knife down."
The blade pressed against my throat wasn't part of the plan. Neither was the man holding it—thick Russian accent in my ear, vodka-sour breath on my neck.
"I said, where is Castellano?" he repeated, pressing the blade harder.
Blood trickled down my neck, warm and wet. I remained perfectly still, assessing. Two minutes ago, I'd been alone in Dominic's private bathroom, washing my hands after slipping into his office to copy files from his computer. Now I was pinned against the wall by one of Petrov's men—the younger one with dead eyes who'd watched me dance the night before.
"I don't know," I said calmly, my accent slipping slightly in the stress. "He left. Business emergency."
"Liar." The Russian's free hand slid up my side, rough and possessive. "Pretty dancer. Pretty spy."
My heart froze. Had they made me? Did they know who I really was?
"I'm just entertainment," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady.
"Mmm." His hand continued its exploration, squeezing my breast painfully through my dress. "Petrov wants what Castellano has. Including you."
Relief flooded through me—he thought I was spying for Dominic, not on him. I could work with that.
I had exactly three seconds to decide: maintain cover as the dancer who needed rescuing, or show my hand?
Fuck it.
In one fluid motion, I stomped down on his instep, simultaneously grabbing his knife hand and twisting it away from my throat. The move caught him by surprise—dancers weren't supposed to know combat techniques. Before he could recover, I'd reversed our positions, his own knife now pressed against his throat.
"Surprising," he said, a flicker of genuine emotion—respect, maybe—crossing his previously dead eyes.
"You have no idea." I increased pressure on the blade. "Now tell me what Petrov is really doing here."
He laughed, a harsh sound. "You are not what you seem."
"Neither are you." I searched his face. "You're not just muscle."
Something flashed in his eyes. Recognition? "Smart girl."
"Tell me—"
The bathroom door burst open. Two of Dominic's men stood there, guns drawn.
"Ms. Shade," one said, eyes widening at the scene before him. "Are you hurt?"
I maintained my position, knife still at the Russian's throat. "I'm fine."
"Mr. Castellano is waiting for you downstairs." His eyes never left the Russian. "We'll handle this."
I lowered the knife, stepping back cautiously. The Russian straightened his jacket, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Until next time, dancer," he said softly as Dominic's men took him by the arms.
"There won't be a next time," I replied coldly, though something in his manner suggested otherwise.
I checked my appearance in the mirror, wiping away the trickle of blood from my neck. The cut was superficial, but visible. No hiding it from Dominic.
The drive to the address Dominic had sent was tense. The car Dominic had arranged dropped me at an elegant townhouse in an exclusive neighborhood—not what I'd expected for an emergency business meeting.
A stone-faced security guard led me through an ornate foyer into what appeared to be a private residence. Expensive art lined the walls. Old money, old power.
"Wait here," he instructed, leaving me in a study that could have been transported directly from an Italian villa.
I'd barely had time to examine the space when the door opened again.
Dominic stopped short when he saw me, his expression darkening as his eyes locked on the cut at my neck.
"What happened?" His voice was deadly quiet as he crossed the room.
"Nothing I couldn't handle." I kept my tone casual.
"That's not what I asked." He reached up, tilting my chin to examine the wound. "Who did this?"
The possessive fury in his eyes should have repulsed me. Instead, it sent a rush of heat through my body.
"One of Petrov's men thought I might know where you went." I watched his reaction carefully. "He seemed to think I was spying for you."
Dominic's jaw tightened. "And how did he end up bleeding on my bathroom floor?"
So his men had filled him in.
"I don't like being touched without permission." I held his gaze steadily.
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, then a darker emotion I couldn't name. "Where does a businessman learn to recognize a trained killer?"
"Where does a businessman learn to recognize a trained killer?" I countered.
He almost smiled. "Fair point."
His fingers lingered at my throat, no longer examining the wound but simply touching me. "You're full of surprises, Shade."
"So are you." I gestured around us. "This doesn't look like a business emergency."
"It was. Now it's handled." He stepped back, creating space between us. "Are you hungry?"
The abrupt shift threw me. "What?"
"Hungry. For food." This time he did smile, a flash of genuine amusement. "Even mysterious dancers need to eat."
Before I could respond, the door opened and a woman entered—elegant, in her sixties, with Dominic's same green eyes.
"There you are, caro." She embraced Dominic warmly before turning curious eyes to me. "And this must be your dancer."
My eyebrows rose at 'your dancer.'
"Mother," Dominic said, a warning in his tone. "This is Shade. She performs at Purgatory."
The woman extended her hand with old-world grace. "Sophia Castellano. A pleasure."
I shook her hand, adjusting my persona slightly. Shade would be comfortable in any setting, even an unexpected meeting with the mother of Chicago's most powerful crime boss.
"The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Castellano."
"Please, call me Sophia." Her eyes were shrewd as they took me in. "Dominic rarely brings his... associates home."
The implication was clear. Dominic shot his mother a look that would have made most men tremble.
"Shade isn't an associate, Mother. She's an employee who was unfortunately caught in a situation at the club that required my attention."
"Of course," Sophia replied, not believing him for a second. "Well, since you're here, you must stay for dinner. I insist."
Before either of us could object, she swept from the room, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume in her wake.
"I should go," I said quickly. Dinner with Dominic's mother hadn't been part of any reconnaissance plan.
"You heard her. She insists." Dominic's expression was unreadable. "Besides, I need to know exactly what happened with Petrov's man."
"I told you—"
"Not everything." His gaze was penetrating. "You're holding back. I want to know why one of the Bratva's intelligence officers was alone with you in my private bathroom."
My pulse quickened. So he knew the Russian wasn't just muscle.
"Intelligence officer?"
"Don't play innocent. It doesn't suit you." He moved closer again, backing me against a bookshelf. "You knew exactly who he was. I saw it in your eyes when I mentioned it."
I met his gaze without flinching. "I'm observant. He didn't move like regular muscle."
"And you don't move like a regular dancer." His voice dropped lower. "Who are you really, Shade?"
"You had me investigated." I kept my voice steady despite his proximity. "You tell me."
"I know what's on paper." His hand came up to rest against the bookshelf beside my head, effectively caging me in. "But paper lies."
"So do people."
"Yes." His eyes dropped to my lips. "They do."
The tension between us pulled taut, that same electricity from his penthouse crackling in the air. His body was inches from mine, not touching but close enough that I could feel his heat, smell that intoxicating cologne.
"We never finished our conversation," he murmured.
"Which one? About my mysterious past or about what I want?" I raised my chin slightly, defiant.
"Both." His other hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "But let's start with what you want."
My breath caught as his fingertips grazed my cheek. "What I want doesn't matter."
"It's the only thing that matters." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my lips. "Say it."
Pride warred with desire. "Say what?"
"That you want me to kiss you."
My heart hammered so hard I was sure he could hear it. Part of me—the part that was still Valentina—screamed to push him away, to remember who he was, what he'd done. But another part—the part that grew stronger every time we were together—whispered to give in, just once.
"I—"
"Dominic!" His mother's voice called from somewhere in the house. "The table is set!"
He closed his eyes briefly, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. "We're being summoned."
"Saved by the bell," I murmured.
His eyes flashed. "Postponed, not canceled."
Dinner was an exercise in surrealism. Sitting at an elegant table with Dominic and his mother, discussing art and music as if we were normal people. As if he wasn't a crime lord and I wasn't there to destroy him.
Sophia was charming, intelligent, and obviously adored her son. But beneath her warmth, I sensed the same razor-sharp calculation that made Dominic so dangerous.
"How did you come to dance at Dominic's club?" she asked over dessert, her tone innocently curious.
"I go where the opportunities are," I replied smoothly. "Your son runs the most exclusive venue in Chicago."
"And before Chicago?" She took a delicate sip of wine.
"Mother," Dominic warned.
"What? I'm making conversation." She smiled at me. "A beautiful, talented woman like you must have had many opportunities before Purgatory."
She was fishing, probing the same holes in my background that had made Dominic suspicious.
"I've been fortunate," I said carefully. "Though not every opportunity was as... respectful as your son's establishment."
"Mmm." She studied me over her wine glass. "And your family? Are they proud of your success?"
A knife twisted in my chest at the mention of family. "I don't have family."
Something softened in her expression. "Everyone has family, cara. Whether by blood or by choice."
"Some of us lose both," I replied, more sharply than I'd intended.
Silence fell over the table. Dominic watched me with that intense focus that seemed to see straight through my carefully constructed facade.
"I apologize," Sophia said finally. "I didn't mean to touch a wound."
"It's fine." I forced a smile. "It was a long time ago."
The rest of dinner passed with lighter conversation, but I felt Dominic's eyes on me constantly, cataloging my reactions, filing away every response for future reference.
After coffee, Sophia excused herself with a knowing smile. "I'm sure you two have things to discuss. Dominic, don't keep her too late. It's not gentlemanly."
When she was gone, Dominic led me back to the study, closing the door behind us.
"Your mother is... perceptive," I said, moving to the window to put space between us.
"She's Italian. Nosiness is genetic." He poured two glasses of brandy, offering me one. "Though she's right about one thing."
"What's that?"
"We do have things to discuss." He took a seat in a leather armchair, gesturing for me to take the one opposite. "Starting with why you were in my private bathroom when you were supposed to be in a car on your way home."
No point lying about the obvious. "I needed to use the bathroom."
"My private bathroom. Through my private office. Which requires a keycard to access." His tone was conversational, but his eyes were hard. "Try again."
I took a sip of brandy, buying time. "I was curious."
"About?"
"You." Not entirely a lie. "The man behind the empire."
"So you broke into my office?" There was something almost like amusement in his voice.
"The door was unlocked." It hadn't been, but he couldn't prove otherwise.
"Of course it was." He didn't believe me for a second. "And Petrov's man just happened to find you there."
"Wrong place, wrong time," I agreed.
"You know what I think?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I think Petrov sent him to find something. And he found you instead."
My pulse quickened. "Why would Petrov be interested in your office?"
"The same reason anyone would be." His gaze was steady. "Information is valuable."
"You think I'm spying for Petrov?" I forced a laugh. "I only met the man yesterday."
"I don't think you're spying for Petrov." He took a slow sip of his brandy. "But I do think you're spying."
Ice slid down my spine. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" He set his glass down. "Professional dancer with combat training. No traceable history. Conveniently shows up just as I'm negotiating with the Bratva. Insists on working directly for me. Breaks into my office the first chance she gets."
He'd laid it out so clearly. Each piece of evidence damning on its own, devastating in combination.
"If you really believed that," I said carefully, "I wouldn't be sitting here drinking brandy with you. I'd be in a warehouse somewhere with your men asking much less polite questions."
Something flashed in his eyes—approval, maybe. "True."
"So why am I here?"
He studied me for a long moment. "Because I want to know who you're working for before I decide what to do about it."
"I'm not working for anyone."
"Everyone works for someone." He leaned back, seemingly relaxed again. "Even me."
That caught me off guard. "You? You're the boss."
"Of some things." His smile was enigmatic. "Not everything."
The implications of that statement were staggering. If Dominic answered to someone else, it changed everything about my understanding of my father's murder.
"Who?" I asked before I could stop myself.
His smile widened. "See? You are curious."
I realized my mistake too late. I'd shown my hand.
"Professional hazard," I said lightly. "Dancers are natural observers."
"Among other things." He rose smoothly, coming to stand before me. "Stand up."
My body responded to the command before my mind could object. I found myself on my feet, looking up at him.
His hand came up to my throat, fingertips tracing the cut that had nearly stopped bleeding. "You should have this looked at."
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." His thumb brushed over my pulse point. "Nothing about you is nothing, Shade."
The way he said my false name made it sound like an endearment. My breath hitched as his touch moved from my throat to my jaw, then to my lower lip.
"We keep getting interrupted," he murmured.
"Maybe it's a sign," I suggested, though I made no move to step away.
"I don't believe in signs." His eyes dropped to my mouth. "I believe in taking what I want."
"And what do you want?" My voice was barely above a whisper.
"You know exactly what I want." His hand slid into my hair, cradling the back of my head. "The question is whether you're brave enough to admit what you want."
Pride and mission and common sense all screamed at me to pull away. To remember who he was. Who I was. Why I was here.
But in that moment, with his eyes burning into mine and his touch setting my skin on fire, I couldn't remember anything except the need pulsing through my veins.
"Kiss me," I whispered.
His eyes darkened with triumph and desire. "Say please."
Something defiant flared in me. "Fuck you."
He smiled, a predator's smile. "That's more like it."
Then his mouth was on mine, claiming me with a hunger that matched my own. There was nothing gentle about the kiss—it was possession, pure and simple. His lips demanded, and mine surrendered. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting of expensive brandy and forbidden desire.
I moaned, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders as he backed me against the nearest wall. His body pressed against mine, hard muscle and barely restrained power. One of his hands remained tangled in my hair; the other dropped to my hip, fingers digging in possessively.
When he finally broke the kiss, we were both breathing hard. His eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide with desire.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his voice rough. "Tell me, and I'll walk away right now."
I knew I should. This was a complication I couldn't afford. A weakness that could destroy everything I'd worked for.
But the words wouldn't come.
Instead, I found myself whispering, "Don't stop."
Something fierce and triumphant flashed in his eyes. He claimed my mouth again, hungrier this time, more demanding. His hand slid from my hip to my thigh, finding the slit in my dress and pushing beneath it to touch bare skin.
I gasped against his mouth as his fingers traced upward, discovering what he'd suspected all along—that I wore nothing underneath.
"Fuck," he groaned, breaking the kiss to look at me with naked desire. "You've been like this all day?"
I nodded, beyond words as his fingers explored higher, teasing along my inner thigh.
"Were you wet when you danced for them?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "Or is this just for me?"
The question should have angered me. Instead, it sent a fresh rush of heat between my legs.
"Just you," I admitted, the truth slipping out before I could stop it.
His eyes blazed. His fingers moved higher, finally brushing against my center. We both groaned at the contact.
"So fucking wet," he murmured, circling my clit with torturous slowness. "I knew you would be."
My hips bucked against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction. "Dominic..."
"Say it again," he commanded, pressing harder. "My name."
"Dominic," I gasped as he slid one finger inside me. "Fuck, Dominic."
He captured my mouth again, swallowing my moans as he added a second finger, curling them in a way that made me see stars. His thumb continued to circle my clit, building a pressure that threatened to consume me.
I was close—so close—when a sharp knock at the door froze us both.
"Mr. Castellano," a male voice called. "Urgent call from Mr. Vitali."
Dominic closed his eyes, jaw clenching in obvious frustration. "Give me two minutes."
"He says it's about the shipment, sir. Can't wait."
For a moment, I thought Dominic might ignore the interruption. Then, with visible effort, he withdrew his hand from between my legs. I bit back a whimper of loss.
"This isn't over," he promised, voice rough with need. "Not by a long shot."
He stepped back, adjusting himself discreetly. I leaned against the wall, legs trembling, trying to regain my composure.
"Take my car," he said, retrieving a card from his pocket and handing it to me. "It'll take you wherever you want to go. We'll continue this tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, breathless and needy.
"Eight o'clock. My penthouse." It wasn't a request. "No interruptions this time."
Before I could respond, he leaned in for one more searing kiss that left me dizzy. Then he was gone, striding from the room with the barely contained energy of a predator denied its prey.
I sank onto the nearest chair, heart pounding, body still thrumming with unsatisfied desire. My phone buzzed in my clutch.
Reza: *Status report? Did you get the files?*
I stared at the message, reality crashing back like ice water. The files. The mission. My father.
I had the flash drive in my purse, successfully copied from Dominic's computer before the Russian interrupted. Evidence that might finally give me what I needed to destroy Dominic Castellano.
The same man whose taste still lingered on my lips. Whose touch still burned on my skin. Whose fingers had just been inside me, bringing me to the edge of pleasure I'd never known.
*Got them,* I typed back. *Sending now.*
But as I connected the drive to send the encrypted files, I couldn't stop the hollow feeling spreading in my chest. For the first time since I'd begun this mission, I felt something dangerously close to regret.
I was supposed to be getting close to Dominic to destroy him. Instead, I was letting him get close enough to destroy me.
And the worst part?
I wasn't sure I wanted to stop.