MATTEO
"Tell me where you want to fuck me," she whispered.
It wasn't a question; it was an indecent command. She was using my own desire to steer me away from a murder charge, and the worst part was, it was working. My blood was a chaotic mess of fury and arousal. I couldn't distinguish the two anymore. I wanted to break her, but I also wanted to let her lead me into the dark.
She lifted her chin, locking her eyes with mine. No flinch. No submission. Just that same goddamn confidence that made my hands itch to grab her. Then, without another word, she took my hand... small, soft, but firm... and pulled me with her.
I didn't even know there was a fucking bed in this private booth.
Without hesitation, she pulled me onto the cushioned bench and slid onto the mattress, moving with a dangerous, slow rhythm. Her hips spoke a language every man in this city would kill to hear: Take me now. I leaned over her, my mouth finding the hollow beneath her ear, tasting the salt of her skin. For a heartbeat, she let me have that small dominance. Then, with a fluid move that showed her true, athletic strength, she flipped us.
She settled heavily on top of me, straddling my hips, and began to move in deep, deliberate circles. Her rhythm matched the heavy bass of the club. Her hands skimmed my chest, then trailed down to press lightly against the rigid hardness beneath my zipper.
As I clamped my jaw, tasting the copper of my own blood from the earlier punch, I saw it: a tiny tattoo etched between her shoulder blades. A delicate silhouette of a mother cradling a child. It didn't look like a piece of art; it looked like a vow. A secret history.
"Lose the mask," I commanded, my voice strained and flat.
She chuckled, her fingers running over my unshaven cheek like a violation. "You don't want that," she said low. "It comes with consequences."
"I can't fuck a girl with a goddamn mask on," I snapped, my hand gripping her hip hard enough to leave bruises.
She laughed outright... a throaty, sexy sound... and pushed herself off me. She stood up, retrieving a cigarette from a stand and lighting it with a calm that made me want to burn the room down.
"Matteo Ricci," she said, rolling my name over her tongue like forbidden candy. A slow, knowing smirk spread across her lips. "Men are so fucking easy."
I sat up, the heat in my veins turning into cold ice.
"The only reason I pulled you away was because you were about to commit murder in public. This is my club," she said, her voice turning sharp enough to cut glass. "And you don't have the right to carry a gun in here. No matter who you are or who you kill."
I stood up, pulling the piece from my jacket in one fluid motion. My pulse was steady. Lethal. I didn't care whose club it was. "Really?" I challenged. And then, I fired.
The gunshot echoed, a deafening crack that should have sent her screaming to the floor. Instead, she just stood there. The smell of sulfur and burnt marble filled the tiny booth, a gray haze curling around her silhouette. She didn't even blink.
A single strand of her dark hair, displaced by the wind of the bullet, drifted back into place against her cheek.
"You better get that repaired, Don Ricci," she said, flicking her ash onto the expensive rug with utter disdain. She turned her back on me... a move that should have been a death sentence... and started to walk toward the exit of the booth.
I wasn't done. I stepped forward, my hand shooting out to catch her by the shoulder, pinning her hard against the doorframe. I wanted to rip that mask off and finally see the fear I knew had to be hiding behind the silk. I reached up, my fingers grazing the edge of the mask, ready to expose her. But instead of a gasp or a plea, a low, throaty laugh vibrated through her back and into my chest.
"If you want to fuck me from behind, you might as well just say it, Matteo," she said, her voice dripping with a mocking kind of honey.
Only then did I realize how I had her pinned. My body was flushed against hers, my hands high above her head. I looked toward my left, catching our reflection in a large, gold-rimmed mirror on the wall. She was staring right at me through the glass. No panic. No trembling. Just a slow, dangerous smirk playing on her lips. She looked like she was enjoying the view of a Ricci losing his mind.
"I bet you'd like that," she whispered.
Then, she moved. She shifted her weight, bringing her hips back in a slow, deliberate arch until her backside grazed the rigid hardness behind my zipper. She let out a short, dark chuckle... the sound of a woman who knew she'd already won.