Dante
Il Vizio pulsed around him, alive and bending to his rhythm. The club was his kingdom, and nights like this reminded him why—music like thunder, money flowing like liquor, everyone moving in his orbit.
Eva leaned into him, nails grazing his thigh through his slacks, her perfume heavy and sweet. She laughed at something he hadn’t said, her lips brushing the shell of his ear before pressing against his mouth. Dante let her kiss him, lazy and unbothered, the kind of distraction that filled the space but meant nothing.
It was always nothing.
“Another drink?” she purred, running a finger along the rim of his glass.
He hummed noncommittally, eyes already drifting past her toward the edge of the booth. Something itched at the back of his neck—an instinct, that familiar pull when
