The glass elevators of Moretti Tower didn't just rise; they soared, leaving the grit of the city beneath a veil of clouds. For Elara Vance, every floor she ascended felt like a pound of pressure tightening around her lungs. She adjusted the hem of her pencil skirt, a cheap polyester blend that felt like sandpaper against her thighs compared to the marble and silk interior of the penthouse lobby.
She was here to save her father's architectural firm from ruin, but as she stepped into the office of Dante Moretti, she felt less like a professional and more like a sacrifice.
The office was vast, a panorama of steel and twilight. At the far end, framed by floor-to-ceiling glass, stood a man who seemed to command the very air in the room. Dante Moretti. Billionaire. Rumored King of the Underworld. He didn't turn when she entered. He was nursing a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, his tailored charcoal suit stretched tight across shoulders that looked broad enough to carry the weight of a sin.
"You're late, Miss Vance," his voice rolled over her, a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated in the pit of her stomach.
"The security downstairs—"
"My security is doing their job. They were checking to see if you were hiding a wire. Or a knife." He turned then, and the breath died in Elara's throat. He was devastating. His face was a collection of sharp angles and cold, predatory eyes that raked over her with the clinical precision of a man deciding whether to buy a piece of art or burn it.
When his gaze settled on her chest, Elara felt her nipples harden instantly against the thin lace of her bra, a traitorous reaction to his blatant scrutiny. Her heart hammered so violently against her ribs that she was sure he could see the fabric of her blouse jumping.
"Come here," he commanded.
It wasn't a request. Elara's legs moved before her brain could protest. As she approached, the scent of him hit her—expensive leather, sandalwood, and a metallic tang that whispered of danger. She stopped a few feet away, but he stepped into her personal space, looming over her. The height difference was staggering; she had to crane her neck back to look him in the eye.
"I've seen your designs for the estate," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped even closer, forcing her back against the edge of his massive mahogany desk. "They're soft. Delicate. This project requires something… harder."
He reached out, his hand hovering near her throat. Elara gasped, her breasts heaving with her shallow breaths. The movement caused the soft mounds to jiggle beneath the silk of her blouse, a rhythmic, enticing motion that drew his dark eyes downward. He didn't look away. He watched the way her body reacted to his proximity, the way her pulse throbbed visibly in the hollow of her neck.
"You're trembling," he whispered, his thumb finally making contact with the skin of her jaw. His touch was electric, a searing brand that sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.
Elara felt a sudden, heavy ache between her legs. She could feel herself becoming slick, a primal response to the sheer masculinity radiating off him. She tried to speak, to maintain her professional dignity, but all that came out was a soft whimper as his hand slid down to her collarbone.
"I... I can adapt the designs, Mr. Moretti," she managed to say, though her voice was breathy and weak.
Dante leaned in, his lips inches from her ear. "I don't just want your designs, Elara. To build my sanctuary, I need to know you're consumed by it. I need to know you're mine."
He moved his body flush against hers, pinning her to the desk. The hardness of his thighs pressed into hers, and she could feel the unmistakable, rigid length of his desire through his trousers, a thick, pulsing promise of power. He wasn't moving, yet the sheer stillness of his arousal felt like a rhythmic assault on her senses.
Elara's head fell back, her eyes fluttering shut. In the silence of the room, the atmosphere shifted. The "paranormal" chill she had heard whispered about in relation to the Moretti name seemed to settle in the corners of the room, a cold shadow that made the heat of his body feel even more intense. It was as if the very walls were watching them.
Suddenly, a sharp chime on his desk broke the spell. Dante didn't pull away immediately. He lingered, his gaze fixed on her swollen lips, before finally stepping back. The loss of his heat felt like a physical blow.
"My associates are arriving," he said, his face returning to a mask of cold professionalism, though his eyes still burned with a dark, lingering hunger. "The men I deal with... they aren't like the people you know, Elara. They are the shadows this city pretends don't exist. If you walk through that door, you belong to this world. And you belong to me."
He walked behind his desk, the movement fluid and dangerous. "There is a group—The Circle. They have been watching your father's firm. They don't want this estate built. They want the secrets buried beneath it to stay buried."
Elara's brow furrowed. "Secrets? It's just an old manor."
Dante let out a short, humorless laugh. "Nothing is 'just' anything in my world. People have disappeared for less than a floor plan. If you stay, you'll hear things. You'll feel things in that house that science can't explain. Voices in the stone. Shadows that move when the lights are off."
He leaned forward, his hands flat on the desk. "But I will protect what is mine. Are you mine, Elara?"
The question wasn't just about the contract. It was about her soul. Elara looked at him, her body still throbbing from his touch, the memory of his hardness still imprinted on her thighs. She knew she should run, but the pull was too strong—the lure of the billionaire, the shadow of the Mafia, and the dark, erotic promise in his eyes.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good," Dante said, a predatory smirk tugging at his lips. "Then sign the contract. And then, we go to the estate. I want to see how you handle the dark."
As Elara picked up the pen, her hand shaking, she didn't see the shadow move in the corner of the room, or the red light of a hidden camera transmitting her image to a room filled with masked men miles away. She only felt the heat in her blood and the terrifying, beautiful weight of Dante Moretti's gaze.