Episode3:Club Inferno
1115 Words
Midnight came cloaked in red neon and whispered sin.
Aria Moretti stood outside Club Inferno, the most exclusive, dangerous, and off-the-record underground club in Manhattan. No cameras. No questions. Just money, secrets, and enough blood-stained loyalty to bury a dozen empires.
She wore black.
Silk, tight, backless. The kind of dress that made men look twice—and women look with envy. Her heels were sharp enough to stab someone, and her lipstick matched the murder in her heart. She wasn’t here to play games.
She was here to start one.
Two men in black suits stepped aside the moment they saw her. She didn’t need to speak. Her last name did it for her.
Inside, the club pulsed with bass and bodies. Red chandeliers flickered above velvet booths, smoke coiled in the air like a living thing, and the music was slow, seductive, dangerous. Like a heartbeat before the kill.
She spotted him immediately.
Damien Rivas. Seated in a private booth, drink in hand, surrounded by shadows and sin. His black shirt was open at the throat, sleeves rolled up just enough to show inked skin and strong forearms. He looked like a man who didn’t care who wanted him dead—and somehow still controlled the room.
Their eyes locked. Heat. Tension. Unspoken history already too heavy to carry.
He tilted his head toward the booth.
She walked to him.
No words. No hesitation.
As she slid into the seat beside him, he poured her a drink. Bourbon. No ice.
“Didn’t think you’d show,” he said, eyes on hers.
“I like to surprise people,” she replied, taking the glass. “Especially the ones who think they know how the game is played.”
His lips curved slightly. “Darling, I built the game.”
“And yet,” she said, sipping slowly, “you’re still here, waiting for me.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the energy between them coiling tighter, more dangerous than any gun.
“I know my father was working with you,” she finally said.
He raised a brow. “You’ve been digging.”
“I found the flash drive. Labeled G.B.” She met his gaze. “Game of Blood. What is it?”
His face went blank. Still. Like ice over lava.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
“You’re not ready.”
“Try me.”
Damien leaned in. So close his breath warmed her cheek.
“It’s a contract. Between the five major mafia families. A game, played in the shadows. One rule: eliminate your rivals without making it public. No police. No war. Just blood.”
She blinked. “And my father played?”
“He created it.”
Her heart stopped.
“He made rules to control chaos,” Damien continued. “But somewhere along the line, he broke them.”
“How?”
“He got greedy.”
Aria’s grip on her glass tightened. “So someone took him out.”
He nodded once.
“Was it you?”
“No.” His voice was low, rough. “But I was supposed to be next.”
Before she could respond, the music dropped to a throbbing low beat—and a man slid into the booth across from them.
Marco Santori. Young, cocky, snake in a thousand-dollar suit. Leader of the Santori family. Her father’s longtime rival.
“Well, well,” Marco said, eyes dragging over Aria’s body like a threat. “The princess finally comes out to play.”
“Careful,” Damien said without looking at him. “She bites.”
Marco smirked. “I like a little bite.”
Aria leaned forward, smile sharp. “You’ll choke on mine.”
Marco’s grin faded slightly. “Your father made enemies, Aria. Ones who don’t care that you’re young. Or pretty. Or untouchable.”
“No one is untouchable,” she said, voice like ice.
“Good.” Marco dropped a sleek black envelope on the table. “Then consider this your invitation.”
“To what?”
“The new round of the Game.” He leaned closer. “And I hope you’re ready. Because this time, it’s kill or be killed.”
He stood. Walked away without another word.
Aria stared at the envelope. She didn’t touch it.
“What happens if I don’t play?” she whispered.
“You die,” Damien said simply. “Or worse—someone you love does.”
Her heart twisted. “I don’t love anyone.”
Damien looked at her for a long moment. “Not yet.”
---
Back in the penthouse, hours later, Aria couldn’t sleep.
She stood barefoot on the balcony, staring at the lights, the envelope in her hand.
An invitation to murder. To power. To vengeance.
She didn’t hear him come in.
One second she was alone.
The next, Damien was behind her.
“You left without saying goodbye,” he said.
“I didn’t realize I owed you one.”
He stepped closer. “You’re in now.”
“I didn’t accept.”
“You don’t get to choose. You’re your father’s daughter. That’s enough.”
She turned, face inches from his. “So what happens now?”
“Now,” he said, reaching out slowly, brushing a finger along the bare skin of her arm, “you learn to stop playing nice.”
The touch sent shivers down her spine.
“You think you can teach me?”
“I think you like danger.”
“I think you are danger.”
He smiled. “And you like me anyway.”
She should’ve walked away.
Should’ve shoved him off the balcony.
But instead, she reached up, wrapped her hand around his tie, and pulled him to her.
Their lips met—no hesitation this time.
This wasn’t soft. This wasn’t gentle. It was a storm—needy, messy, full of teeth and heat. His hands roamed her body like he had a right, gripping her hips, her waist, her throat. Her nightgown slipped down again, and this time, she let it.
Her back hit the glass. His mouth moved to her neck, her collarbone, his breath hot as he whispered—
“You have no idea what you’re starting.”
“Then show me.”
He lifted her—effortless—and carried her inside, setting her down on the bed like something sacred.
For a moment, he hovered over her. Studying her. Daring her to say no.
She didn’t.
And when he kissed her again, it was fire and ruin.
It was war.
And she didn’t want to win.
She wanted to burn.
- Writer
