Dante
She stormed out of my office like she meant it—heels clicking sharp enough to pierce stone. I let her go. Three seconds. Then I followed.
Serafina wasn’t walking out of my club. Not tonight. Not dressed like sin.
By the time I hit the main floor, she was already at the bar with Amelia and the birthday crowd. Laughter spilled around them, shrill and careless. I watched her toss back a shot, then another, her smile widening with each burn.
I cut it short.
“Bring a few bottles of champagne upstairs,” I told the bartender. “And enough glasses for all of them.”
“Yes, Mr. Romano.”
Serafina whipped her head toward me, eyes flashing. “Oh, of course. Drag me into your cage upstairs, where no one moves without your permission.”
“Exactly,” I said.
The birthday girl squealed at
