The next morning, I wake to the smell of burnt toast and Sofia's humming in the kitchen. For a moment, I pretend last night didn't happen. Pretend I didn't see Damiano up close, didn't hear his voice in my ear, didn't have him invading my thoughts like he's already inside me, but then my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Unknown number.
I don't answer. I throw on a t-shirt and shorts, padding barefoot into the kitchen where Sofia's standing on tiptoe, trying to spread peanut butter on toast without making a mess. She's in her school uniform, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
"Morning," she says with a grin.
I kiss the top of her head, stealing a bite of toast. "Morning, brat."
She glances at the clock. "Are you working tonight?"
"Yeah." My stomach twists. "I'll be home before midnight."
She gives me a look that says she knows that's a lie, but she doesn't push. She's twelve years old enough to notice things, but still young enough to let me hide the ugly details. When she leaves for school, I finally check my phone. Three new messages.**
All from the same number.
7:14 a.m. — I told you to get the lock fixed.
7:15 a.m. — The man who owes me money has been calling your phone.
7:17 a.m. — I'll handle him.
I toss the phone onto the couch like it's burned me. He's not just watching. He's in my life already, moving pieces without asking.
By the time I get to the club that night, I've convinced myself I'm going to ignore him. No looks. No conversation. Nothing. That resolve lasts exactly five minutes because when I walk into the dressing room, there's an envelope on my vanity table with my name in bold, black ink. Inside is a single sheet of paper.
Ava Moreno — DEBT: CLEARED.
The amount… every penny I owed to the loan sharks, the hospital, the credit card companies—listed in neat rows. All marked PAID. At the bottom, one line in handwriting I don't need to guess :
You're welcome. Dinner. Tomorrow. — D.
I don't have to look up to know he's here. I can feel him. The air changes when Damiano walks in—heavy, charged. And when my eyes betray me and find his reflection in the mirror, he's watching me with that same unreadable stare, like he already knows what I'm going to say. The problem is, I don't know what I'm going to say.
His reflection doesn't blink. Doesn't shift. He just waits. I crumple the paper in my fist and stand, my heels clicking against the floor as I march out into the main room. The music pounds, bass vibrating through the floor, lights strobing in blues and reds. But none of it distracts me from the fact that Damiano Cavelli is leaning back in a private booth like he owns the place.
Which, knowing him, he probably does. I slam the envelope onto the table. "What the hell is this?"
He doesn't look at the envelope. His eyes stay locked on mine, storm-grey and impossible to read. "A receipt."
"I didn't ask you to pay my debts."
"You didn't have to." He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, suit jacket falling open to reveal a dark shirt that clings to his chest. "You're mine, Ava. I take care of what's mine."
My pulse spikes. "I'm not yours."
His mouth curves—not a smile. More like a dangerous tilt of the lips. "You think I spent that kind of money without expecting something in return?"
My stomach knots. "I'll pay you back."
"You will," he says. "But not with money."
The way he says it makes my skin heat. Every possible meaning of those words flashes through my mind, and judging by the glint in his eyes, that's exactly what he wants. I take a step back, but he's already rising from the booth, towering over me. His scent, dark cologne and something sharper—wraps around me.
"You'll have dinner with me tomorrow," he says softly, but the command is iron. "And you'll wear something I send you."
"I'm not—"
His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up. It's not hard, but it's enough to make my breath hitch.
"Don't make me come to your apartment to ask again, Ava."
The threat isn't loud. It doesn't have to be.When he finally lets me go, I turn and walk away before he sees my hands shaking, but even as I head for the stage, I can feel his gaze burning into me, making a claim I'm not sure I can fight.
The stage lights are brutal—hot enough to make my skin slick under the sequined bra top, but that's nothing compared to the burn of his gaze. I step out, hips rolling in time with the slow, sultry beat, every move calculated. It's not for him. It's for the crowd. For the bills they'll slide my way. At least that's what I tell myself, but my eyes keep flicking back to that booth.
Damiano sits like a king, one hand draped over the backrest, the other wrapped around a glass of amber whiskey. He doesn't blink when I catch his gaze. Doesn't even sip. Just… watches. The crowd cheers when I sink to my knees, arching back, hair brushing the stage floor. I feel it then—the phone in my garter buzzing. A tiny vibration against my thigh that no one else notices.
I slide my hand down my leg, pretending it's part of the routine, and sneak a glance. A text.
Damiano: Look at me when you spread your legs.
My lips part, but I keep moving, the choreography disguising my pause. Another buzz.
Damiano: Good girl.
A shiver runs through me. The music shifts, faster now, and I spin on the pole, letting my hair whip out, forcing my focus anywhere but him. But the bastard knows exactly what he's doing. When I bend forward at the waist, his next text flashes.
Damiano: Imagine it's my mouth there.
I almost miss my step. The audience thinks it's part of the act—a sudden gasp, a deeper arch. They cheer. He tips his whiskey toward me in a silent toast. By the time the song ends, my thighs are trembling—and not just from the workout. I blow a kiss to the crowd, but my eyes are locked on him when I do it and his expression says only one thing: You're already mine.
The crowd noise fades behind me as I slip through the heavy black curtain. The back hallway smells faintly of smoke and spilled beer, the bass still thumping faintly through the walls. My pulse hasn't slowed since I stepped off stage. I barely make it two steps before a shadow detaches from the wall.
"Brat."
Damiano's voice is a low growl, deep enough to crawl over my skin. He's close before I can think to move, boxing me in between his body and the peeling paint.
"You play dangerous games," he says, eyes raking over me like he owns every inch.
I swallow. "You're the one texting me during my set."
His hand comes up, fingers brushing the side of my jaw in the lightest touch—mocking, almost tender. "And you read them. Obeyed them." His gaze drops to my lips. "Did you imagine me, Ava?"
Heat flares low in my stomach. "You think too highly of yourself."
One corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. "No, I just know what I do to you."
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "You were shaking when you came off stage. And not from the dance."
I should push him away. Tell him to back off. But my hands betray me, fisting in the fabric of his suit jacket.
"Careful," he murmurs, sliding a hand to my hip. "I might think you want me to take you right here."
Footsteps echo at the far end of the hall. He steps back so suddenly I nearly stumble, his expression unreadable now.
"Go home," he says. "And keep your phone close."
Then he's gone, leaving the air smelling faintly of his cologne and my body thrumming like a live wire.
By the time I step outside, the night air feels cooler but does nothing to calm the burn in my skin. I pull my jacket tighter, ignoring the catcalls from a group smoking near the curb. The bus stop's only half-lit, and my phone buzzes before I even check the time.
Unknown Number: You looked like you were about to beg.
My breath catches. I don't have to guess who it is. Another message comes, slower this time, like he's savoring the words.
Unknown Number:Next time, I'll make you say my name loud enough for the whole club to hear.
My thighs press together instinctively. I type back before I can stop myself.
Me: You're assuming there'll be a next time.
The reply is instant.
Unknown Number: There will be. And when there is… you'll be the one asking for it.
The bus arrives, brakes hissing. I pocket my phone, but the screen stays burned into my mind. By the time I'm seated, I already know two things. One—Damiano Moretti is dangerous in ways I can't even name yet and two—part of me wants to see just how far he'll go.