Chapter 3 THE MAN WHO WATCHED FROM THE DARK

The club pulsed with music and luxury the moment she stepped in. Everything inside screamed wealth-gold accents on black marble walls, chandeliers that looked too expensive to exist, and women dressed like walking temptations.

She clutched her coat tighter, hiding the skimpy outfit underneath, her heels clicking nervously across the polished floor. Her friend, Tasha, walked beside her like she owned the place. Confident. Sexy. Untouchable.

"You good?" Tasha asked, eyes scanning her up and down. "You look hot. That dress is going to make jaws drop."

"I still feel like I shouldn't be here," she muttered.

Tasha rolled her eyes. "Girl, you're not stripping. You're just serving drinks. Smiling. Collecting tips. That's it. It's just... extra cash. Nothing more."

But it felt like more. Everything about the club shimmered with danger. She could feel it crawling up her spine, electrifying her nerves.

The manager gave her a quick rundown-where to walk, how to carry the tray, how to speak. No touching. No distractions. Smile, serve, disappear. Simple enough.

Then he came in.

The music didn't stop. The chatter didn't pause. But somehow, everything shifted when he entered.

He was tall, dressed in a black suit that wrapped around a body built like a weapon. No tie. Just the open collar of a crisp shirt exposing a strong throat and the hint of ink on his skin. His black hair was slicked back, and his jaw looked carved from stone.

But it was his eyes that trapped her. Cold. Dark. Dangerous. Like he'd seen hell-and survived it.

He walked straight to his booth in the VIP section, flanked by two guards, and sat like a king reclaiming his throne. No one spoke to him. No one dared.

And yet, he saw her.

One glance. That's all it took. His eyes dragged over her slowly, like he was already imagining what she looked like without the coat. Then they rose back to her face, locking in. Holding her there.

She froze.

Her tray wobbled slightly in her hands, her mouth suddenly dry. Tasha noticed and grabbed her arm.

"Don't stare," she whispered sharply. "That's him."

"Him who?"

Tasha stepped in closer, voice low. "His name's Damien Moretti. Billionaire. Owner of half this city. And a mafia lord. Dangerous as hell. Women offer themselves to him on silver platters-and he doesn't even look. But now..."

Her voice trailed off as they watched the bartender walk over to Damien, whisper something, then gesture toward her.

Damien's gaze never left her face. He leaned back in his seat and said one thing:

"Bring her to me."

Tasha sucked in a breath. "Holy shit. He's never asked for anyone before."

"I-I'm not a stripper," she stammered.

"He knows that."

"What if-"

"One night," Tasha interrupted, gripping her shoulders. "It's just one night. Go talk to him. Smile. Serve. If he touches you, say no. You always have the choice to walk away."

But did she?

She looked across the club, at the man still watching her with the patience of a predator. His stare didn't waver. It was clear: he wanted her. And men like Damien Moretti weren't used to hearing no.

Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled off her coat, revealing the deep-cut dress that barely held her curves. She felt naked under his gaze, stripped by eyes that promised sin.

Tasha gave her one last push. "Go. Before someone else ends up in your place."

So she walked.

Each step toward him made her heart pound louder. His booth was secluded, curtained with velvet, golden light casting shadows on his sharp features. He didn't speak as she approached. He just watched.

She stopped in front of him, tray trembling. "You asked for me?"

A slow smile curled on his lips. "I did."

His voice was deep. Smooth. Dangerous. Like velvet over a blade.

"What do you want me to bring?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

He tilted his head, gaze dragging from her face to her chest, her waist, her thighs, then back up again.

"You," he said.