The alarm screeches like it's got a personal vendetta against me. I groan, rolling over on the lumpy mattress. My sister's already up, curled on the couch with her knees tucked under her chin, eating cereal straight from the box. The TV flickers with some old cartoon she's too big for, but I don't say anything. It's better than her staring at the wall.
"Morning," I mumble, padding into the kitchen to find there's exactly half a cup of coffee left from yesterday. Cold. Bitter. Perfect.
"Your phone's been buzzing," she says around a mouthful, eyes on the screen.
My pulse ticks up. I cross the room to where my cheap cell sits on the counter, its cracked screen lighting up with a name I should delete and never answer.
Damiano: You have fifteen minutes to get ready. I'm outside.
I freeze, staring at it like the letters might rearrange into something sensible. Outside? Here?
The knock that follows is slow. Heavy. Like he knows exactly how much space he takes up in my head. My sister looks over, curious. "Who's that?"
I force a smile. "No one important. Eat your breakfast."
I pull on my jacket, not bothering with makeup. My heart's already racing, not from fear—though maybe it should be, but from the same thing that had me shaking in the club hallway last night.
When I open the door, Damiano's leaning against the black car parked at the curb, wearing a charcoal suit like he stepped out of some magazine. His eyes roam over me, slow and deliberate, like he's unwrapping something he already bought.
"You're late," he says.
"I didn't agree to go anywhere."
His smirk deepens. "That's the nice thing about me, Ava. I don't need your agreement to take you where I want."
He opens the back door of the car like he's inviting me to step into another world. I hesitate. It's not fear—it's the knowledge that once I'm inside, whatever happens next will change everything.
"Ava." His voice is low, smooth, and dangerous enough to make my stomach flip. "Get in."
I do. The leather is warm, scented faintly of him—expensive cologne and something darker. The door shuts with a heavy click, sealing me in.
The city slides by in silence, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers drumming lazily. Every so often, his eyes flick to me in the reflection of the tinted glass.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"You'll see."
We pull into an underground parking garage beneath a building I don't recognize. He leads me to a private elevator, swiping a card that grants us instant access. The doors close, trapping us in a mirrored box. The air changes—thicker, hotter. My pulse stutters. His reflection watches me like a predator sizing up prey. Then he steps closer.
"You've been on my mind all night." His hand brushes my hip, almost casually, but the heat of it sears through my jacket.
"Is this where you tell me I belong to you now?" I ask, my voice more steady than I feel.
He leans down until his breath ghosts over my ear. "No, Ava. This is where I show you what happens when I decide I want something."
The elevator dings, but neither of us moves. His hand slides up my side, fingers just skimming under the edge of my jacket, and I can feel the tension coiling between us—danger, lust, and something I'm too afraid to name.
The elevator doors slide open to a dimly lit corridor, but Damiano doesn't move forward.
Instead, he backs me into the mirrored wall, his hand planting beside my head. Up close, his storm-grey eyes pin me in place. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his voice almost a growl.
I don't.
His mouth claims mine before I can breathe—hard, unyielding, and completely in control. His other hand cups my jaw, angling my face so he can take more, deeper, until my lips ache and my knees threaten to give out.
I taste expensive whiskey on his tongue, feel the scrape of stubble against my skin, and it's dizzying—like every fantasy I've had of him in the dark corners of the club just stepped into reality.
When he finally pulls back, it's only far enough to let me see the heat simmering in his eyes. "That's just the start, bambina."
He takes my hand—not gently and leads me down the hall to a door at the very end. Another card swipe. The lock clicks. Inside is a private suite, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the glittering skyline. But I don't have time to take it in, because he's already shrugging off his jacket, his gaze never leaving mine.
"You're going to sit," he says, pointing to the sleek leather couch, "and listen. You'll learn exactly what I expect from you."
I swallow hard. "And if I don't?"
His smile is wicked, slow. "Then I'll teach you the hard way."
I lower myself onto the couch, my pulse in my throat. Damiano stays standing, loosening his tie like the movement itself is a warning.
"You've been dancing for me for months," he says, each word deliberate. "Making me wait. Making me imagine how you'd sound with my hand between your thighs."
My breath catches, and his gaze darkens at the sound. He moves closer, unhurried, and when he reaches me, his hand cups the back of my neck. The other drags along my jawline, his thumb grazing my lower lip.
"You don't get to tease me without consequence, Ava."
Then his mouth is on mine again, fiercer than in the elevator—his tongue stroking deep, his grip on my neck firm enough to hold me exactly where he wants me. I can't think, can't move, except to clutch at the front of his shirt.
He pushes me back into the couch, his body half over mine, one knee pressing between my thighs. The friction makes me gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him.
His hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer until I feel every inch of him—hard, unyielding, dangerous. My head tips back, baring my throat, and his lips trail down to taste the skin there.
"Damiano…" It's a whisper, almost a plea.
And then— A sharp buzz from his phone cuts through the heat.
He freezes, forehead resting against mine for a beat, before straightening. "Business," he mutters, his voice edged with frustration. "Stay here."
The absence of his touch is like a cold rush of air. I watch him walk away, answering the call in rapid Italian, and I know—this isn't over. Not even close.
I sit there, heart still racing, every nerve tingling from where he touched me. His voice, low and clipped in Italian, cuts through the silence. I catch words I barely understand—problema… ragazza… famiglia. Problem. Girl. Family.
My stomach twists. When he hangs up, he doesn't come back right away. He stays by the window, his broad shoulders rigid, staring out at the city like he's deciding whether to burn it down.
Finally, he turns. His eyes lock on mine, and there's something different now—darker, more dangerous than the lust that had been there moments ago.
"Where's your sister tonight?" he asks.
The question sends a chill straight through me. "Home. Why?"
He moves closer, each step measured. "Because someone just made her part of a debt they think you owe."
My breath catches. "What the hell are you talking about?"
He crouches in front of me, his big hands braced on my knees. "I'm talking about the people you've been running from, bambina. They've decided to collect and they know the fastest way to hurt you is through her."
My pulse pounds in my ears. "How do you—"
"I know everything about you, Ava," he says, voice like steel. "And from this moment on, you're not walking out of here without my protection."
There's no question in his tone. Just command. And deep down, I know—protection from Damiano Cavallaro always comes with a price. He straightens, towering over me, and offers his hand. Not gentle—commanding.
"Up," he says.
I hesitate, which earns me a faint narrowing of his eyes. When I finally take his hand, his grip swallows mine, firm enough to remind me I don't really have a choice.
He leads me past the bar, through a set of frosted glass doors, and into the private part of the club. The air here is different—quieter, heavier. His suite is on the top floor, a penthouse that smells faintly of leather and expensive whiskey.
"Why am I here?" I demand, trying to sound braver than I feel.
Damiano shuts the door with a soft click, then locks it. "Because if you walk out there, Ava, you're bait. And I don't like sharing what's mine."
My heart slams against my ribs. "I'm not yours."
He steps into my space, close enough that his heat presses into me. "No?" His gaze drops to my mouth. "Then why are you looking at me like you're imagining me back between your legs?"
I swallow hard, but I can't step away. His hand slides to my hip, pulling me flush against him, and my breath hitches when I feel exactly how much he wants me.
"You'll stay here tonight," he says. "In my bed."
"That's not—"
His finger presses lightly to my lips. "It's not negotiable, bambina."
He brushes past me, heading toward the bedroom. "Shower's to the left. Towels are on the rack. When you're done…" He glances back, eyes dark and unyielding. "…come to me."
Steam fills the bathroom, curling around me as the hot water beats against my skin.
I can still feel him—his heat, his scent, the way his voice slid over my nerves like silk and steel. I should be thinking about my sister, about the danger he mentioned. Instead, I'm thinking about how he looked at me like he could strip me down with just his eyes.
I step out, wrap a towel around myself, and for a moment… I consider staying in here all night but something deep in my chest—equal parts fear and craving—pulls me toward the bedroom.
The lights in his suite are low, a warm golden glow spilling over the massive bed.
Damiano is sprawled against the headboard, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, dark ink peeking from beneath the crisp white fabric. He's holding a glass of whiskey, but his eyes… his eyes are all on me.
Slowly, deliberately, they travel from my damp hair down the length of the towel clinging to my body.
"Better," he murmurs, taking a sip. "But you're still overdressed."
I clutch the towel tighter. "Not happening."
He smirks, the corner of his mouth tilting in that dangerous way that makes my knees feel unsteady.
"Not yet," he corrects, setting the glass aside. "You'll come to me when you're ready. When the need's too sharp to breathe."
He pats the space beside him. "Tonight, we're going to test how long you can last."
When I don't move, he chuckles low in his throat. "Don't make me come get you, bambina. I promise, if I do… you won't sleep."