The bass of The Velvet Shadow pulsed against Aria Bianchi's ribs like a dying heartbeat. She wiped the same spot on the bar for the third time, her eyes scanning the crowd of suited predators and half-naked girls who believed this was nothing more than an exclusive club in Chicago's Gold Coast.
It was not.
This was Dante Morelli's kingdom. The man who had ordered the massacre that left her parents and little brother bleeding out on their own marble floor five years ago.
She had come here to end him.
"Another whiskey, sweetheart?" A thick-necked enforcer leaned over the bar, his gold chain glinting under the lights.
Aria forced a smile that never reached her eyes and poured the drink. "On the house for our VIPs." He grinned at her like fresh prey. They all did.
She had dyed her hair midnight black and cut it short to hide the long waves that once made her recognizable. Fake ID. Fake name. Yet from the moment she had walked through the back door two weeks ago for this bartending job, she had felt it. The prickle on her skin that told her someone was watching.
Tonight that feeling cut like a knife. She looked up.
And there he stood on the mezzanine, leaning against the railing as if he owned gravity itself. Dante Morelli. Thirty-two years old. Six-foot-four of pure tailored sin. Black hair slicked back. A sharp jaw shadowed with stubble. Eyes the color of winter steel. His black dress shirt hung open just enough to reveal the edge of the tattoo she knew covered his chest. Roses and skulls. The Morelli crest.
Their eyes locked and time stopped.
Aria's pulse hammered in her throat. She knew she should look away. Bartenders did not stare at the Don. But she could not. Hate and something far hotter twisted low in her belly.
Dante's mouth curved, just a fraction, like a predator recognizing his favorite meal.
He pushed off the railing and descended the stairs and walked towards her as though the entire club parted for him. It did. Bodies melted out of his path. He moved with the lazy confidence of a man who had never been denied anything he wanted.
Aria's fingers tightened around the whiskey bottle until her knuckles turned white.
He stopped directly in front of her section of the bar, close enough that his scent wrapped around her like smoke. Dark spice, gun oil, and something dangerously expensive.
"You're new," he said. His voice was low, smooth as velvet over razor blades.
"I've been here for two weeks," she answered, keeping her tone steady. "My name is Mia. Nice to meet you, Mr. Morelli."
His smile sharpened. "Mia." He tasted the lie like fine wine. "Funny. You look exactly like a ghost I buried five years ago."
Ice slid down her spine.
Before she could move, his hand shot out and closed around her wrist. Not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to promise he could if he chose.
The bottle slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. No one looked. No one dared.
Dante leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "Aria Bianchi. I watched the footage of your family's house burning. I saw them drag your body out. Yet here you are, serving my liquor like a good little waitress."
Her heart tried to claw its way out of her chest. She yanked her arm, but he did not let go.
"Get your hands off me," she hissed.
His thumb stroked the frantic pulse at her wrist once, slowly. The touch shot straight between her legs like a live wire. She hated her body for reacting.
"Careful," he murmured. "I like fighters. It makes breaking them so much sweeter."
Two of his men appeared at her sides as if summoned by thought alone. Big. Silent. Terrifying.
Dante released her wrist but did not step back. "Take her downstairs. The red room. She and I have unfinished business."
"No—" Aria started, but a meaty hand clamped over her mouth. She bit down hard. The man cursed, yet he did not release her.
They dragged her through the VIP curtain, down a hidden staircase lit blood-red, past doors that muffled screams of both pleasure and pain. This was the BDSM floor. Everyone in the city whispered about it. No one ever spoke about what truly happened behind those locked doors.
Dante followed, hands in his pockets, strolling as though he were taking a Sunday walk.
They shoved her into a room that smelled of leather and sin. Black walls. A St. Andrew's cross bolted to one side. A padded bench fitted with restraints. Mirrors covered every surface so you could watch yourself break.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Dante loosened his tie with one hand, his eyes never leaving hers. "Strip."
"Fuck you."
He laughed, soft, dark, and delighted. "That is the plan, little ghost. But first you are going to tell me exactly how you survived my father's order. Then you are going to beg me to keep you alive." He stepped closer, towering over her. "And the way you are shaking right now? I do not think it is from fear."
Aria's back hit the wall. Her nipples tightened against the thin fabric of her top. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to climb him. The two feelings twisted together into something feral.
Dante raised his hand and traced her jaw with his fingers, almost gently. "You have ten seconds to start talking, Aria. After that, I stop being polite."
Her mind raced. Lie. Fight. Run. But the only exit stood behind him, and the look in his eyes promised he would enjoy the chase.
She lifted her chin. "My family is dead because of you. I have spent five years planning how I would watch you bleed. So go ahead, Morelli. Do your worst."
His eyes flared with something hungry and dangerous.
He leaned in until their mouths were a breath apart.
"Careful what you wish for," he whispered. "Because once I start with you, I do not stop."
The lights in the red room flickered once, and Aria's heart slammed against her ribs.
For the first time in five years, she was no longer sure whether she would kill Dante Morelli… or beg him to ruin her.