The club was called Red Velvet.
Not because of its furniture, or the color of its curtains, but because the walls remembered blood—and the floor had soaked it in more than once.
It wasn't open to the public.
It was a palace for the powerful.
And tonight, its queen arrived.
The music didn't stop when Celeste De Rossi stepped through the entrance, but the atmosphere shifted like gravity realigned itself.
Heads turned.
Eyes widened.
And a line of velvet ropes slid open, silently, without her needing to lift a finger.
She wore black.
Not just a dress—but a second skin.
Backless. Slitted high. A whisper of lace against danger. Her heels were Louboutins, her perfume was something that had once made a customs officer pass out. And her lips—crimson, cruel, unreadable.
Behind her, Ales followed.
Immaculate. Unmoving. Like a shadow trained to bleed for her.
Inside, a booth near the center pulsed with laughter.
Four boys. Three girls.
Mafia heirs. Royalty in their own right.
Children of arms dealers, drug lords, blackmail kings.
They stood when she approached—not by obligation, but instinct.
"Celes!" one of the girls cried, sliding out and holding her arms wide.
Celeste walked in without hesitation. She didn't hug. She let herself be kissed on the cheek. Worshipped. Toasted.
The music surged.
The drinks flowed.
And in the corner, standing just outside the booth, Ales remained still.
Eyes scanning.
Posture loose but alert.
A guard—but not just a guard. A presence.
One of the boys leaned in to whisper to Celeste, grinning with wine-slicked teeth.
"Your new shadow's got a jaw like he eats bullets for breakfast."
She smirked and didn't look back. "He might."
A second boy—Luca, son of a Neapolitan smuggler—snorted. "He looks constipated. Lighten up, robot."
The group laughed.
Ales didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Another girl twirled a cherry stem with her tongue and grinned at him.
"I'll give you ten grand if you smile."
He didn't.
They laughed louder.
Celeste took another shot, laughing harder than all of them—fingers brushing her hair back, eyes glittering.
She turned slightly, half-facing him now, chin tilted.
"You always this stiff, soldier?" she purred.
Ales met her gaze briefly. "Only around snakes."
She blinked—then let out a sharp laugh.
Her friends stared, some confused, some impressed.
She raised her glass to him. "Touché."
The night rolled on in velvet and smoke.
Drinks piled high. Celeste danced—on the table, in the booth, hips winding to the bass, her power radiating like heat from a furnace.
Men tried to approach.
They were stopped before they got close.
Not by Ales.
By her friends.
Because everyone in that room knew one thing:
Celeste De Rossi was not to be touched without permission.
And even her chaos was choreographed.
Ales didn't stop watching her.
He noted every change in her posture.
Every shift in her expression.
Every threat in the room before it bloomed.
When one of the girls stumbled toward the bathroom, too drunk to walk, he alerted one of the servers before she hit the floor.
When Luca began snorting something from a diamond case, Ales memorized the brand, source, and distribution.
But he never interrupted.
He wasn't there to control her.
He was there to protect her.
And that meant staying silent until the blade was drawn.
At 3:17 a.m., Celeste finally returned to the booth, breathless, lipstick smudged, heels in hand.
She flopped onto the velvet like a queen tired of her court.
"Take me home," she muttered.
She didn't need to say his name.
Ales was already moving.
The night outside was quiet, but Celeste was not.
She staggered as she stepped onto the pavement, limbs loose, laughter escaping in small, breathy sounds.
Ales walked beside her silently, eyes scanning every corner of the alley, one hand ready at his side.
She took three steps before her ankle gave out.
Her heels clattered from her grip.
Before her body could hit the ground, he caught her—swift, sure, like instinct.
"Don't touch me," she mumbled, even as she melted against him.
"You can't walk," Ales said.
She didn't argue.
Didn't fight.
She just slumped into his chest, breath warm against the hollow of his throat.
He bent low and lifted her—one arm hooked beneath her knees, the other steady at her back. Her body folded into him with a soft sigh, head resting against his shoulder.
With his free hand, he scooped up her heels.
Leather and flesh.
Power and silence.
He carried her like nothing—a goddess cradled in the arms of a ghost.
The car door opened.
He placed her carefully in the back seat.
But as he started to shut the door—her fingers curled in his shirt.
"Don't go," she whispered.
Her grip was iron despite the drink.
He hesitated.
She yanked.
The cold night kissed her bare shoulders as Ales leaned into the open car door.
She turned toward Ales, eyes glossy but sharp beneath the blur of intoxication.
"Get in the back with me," she said.
The driver glanced at Ales in the rearview.
Ales held his gaze for half a second, then nodded.
The car purred to life.
And before he could seat himself properly, Celeste grabbed his collar and pulled him into the shadows beside her.
The door closed with a heavy, muffled click.
The city melted away.
The darkness inside the car curled like a secret.
And Celeste struck.
She was on him in seconds—legs straddling his lap, dress riding high, skin warm and flushed against his chest. The scent of expensive perfume clung to her like a second skin—dark, spicy, intoxicating.
Her hands were already at his shirt, fingers slipping through buttons like they were promises meant to be broken.
"You pretend you're made of steel," she whispered, voice hot against his throat. "But I know better."
"Celeste," he warned, low and tight.
Her name was a blade on his tongue.
But she only smiled.
And rocked her hips into his.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Mocking.
"I saw the way you looked at me tonight," she murmured, grinding again, cruelly slow. "You watched me dance. Like a soldier watches an enemy he wants to fuck."
His breath hitched—but only once.
Her hand slid beneath the fabric of his shirt, palm flat against his chest, dragging across every scar like she was memorizing war.
"I could make you mine," she whispered.
"You can't," he replied coldly.
She leaned in, brushing her lips along his jaw.
"I already am."
She kissed the corner of his mouth. His neck. Lower.
One hand tangled in his hair. The other moved down—fingers grazing his waistband, dangerously close to crossing the line.
He caught her wrist in a grip like steel.
But it wasn't rough.
It wasn't violent.
It was control, carved from agony.
"Stop," he growled. "You don't know what you're doing."
"Oh, I do," she hissed, biting his shoulder through his shirt. "I want to ruin you."
She ground harder, the friction sinful. Her breath hot, her body desperate.
His hands shook.
His pulse roared.
But he didn't give in.
Because this wasn't seduction.
It was a test.
His free hand reached up.
Two fingers pressed beneath her ear—that vital point just above the carotid. The nerve cluster that snapped the body into unconscious surrender.
Her lips parted to speak.
But the words never came.
Her eyes fluttered.
And she collapsed—soft and slow—against his chest.
Ales exhaled, silent.
He adjusted her, carefully, cradling her head and laying her against the leather seat. He pulled her dress down where it had ridden up. Covered her legs with his jacket.
She looked peaceful now.
Almost innocent.
But the ache inside him was not.
He sat back, every nerve in his body still screaming. His shirt was half open. His breath ragged.
And yet—he'd done his job.
He hadn't broken.