chapter 1
Viviana
I started dancing on the pole to survive.
But if I’m being honest, I started to love it.
Not for the attention—that always came with too many assumptions.
It was the control. The way I could move, command the room, make time bend around the rhythm of my body. It felt like the one thing I owned in a life full of loss.
The hours worked for me.
And the money? One night on that stage earned more than a week of waitressing ever did. But no amount of cash could shield me from judgment.
I’ve been called names I’d never even say out loud.
Slut. w***e. Homewrecker.
If I had a dollar for every insult hurled my way, I’d have fifteen hundred more in my purse by Sunday.
It’s ironic, really. I’ve never even kissed a guy.
Never felt the urge. Never met someone I trusted enough to let that part of myself out.
It’s like... I know what they see when they look at me.
But they don’t know me at all.
Some nights, wives storm in to drag their husbands out, eyes full of fury.
I’ve been accused of stealing men I never looked at twice.
I just smirk and say, “Your problem isn’t with me.”
Because I’m not interested.
But lately, there’s been one man who unnerves me. A VIP.
He walks in like he owns the shadows. Dressed in black, sleeves rolled up to reveal ink that snakes along his knuckles and hands. A bird tattoo stretches its wings across the back of his left hand, and a small cross marks the skin between his thumb and pointer finger on the right—like a warning from God himself.
His hair is dark, thick, and flowing—like something out of a dream laced with danger. His sea-green eyes? Haunting. Piercing. Like they’ve watched people burn and stayed cold.
He sits in the same leather booth every night. Never speaks. Never touches a drink.
Just watches me.
And when I say watches, I mean like he’s trying to peel back the layers of my soul with nothing but a stare. Like he’s trying to remember me—or already does.
He never engages with the other dancers. The men he comes with? Six, maybe eight at a time? They laugh, flirt, throw money like it grows on trees. But him? Nothing. Just silence and those eyes.
He always requests a private lap dance. A grand. Easy money.
But every time, I dodge it. I save my one break for when his request comes in.
I know the girls think I’m crazy. That kind of cash is rare. But they also know better than to argue.
And he? He doesn’t argue either.
If I don’t come, he leaves. Just vanishes into the night.
Sometimes, I catch him exiting through the back as I stand outside, smoke curling from my lips. He gives me this look... like a man torn between wrath and restraint. If looks could kill, I’d be dead ten times over.
Then he’s gone.
And I thank whatever gods are still listening.
Because there’s something dangerous about him.
Something... familiar.
---
Tommaso
She doesn’t recognize me.
Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care.
Viviana Marino. The one girl who used to make my cold, f****d-up world feel less like hell.
Wavy black hair that fell down to her waist when we were kids—now longer, darker, messier. Skin kissed by the sun. Amber eyes that used to shimmer with laughter and fire.
She’s shorter than I remember, but her presence? It’s massive.
Curves made for sin. Movement made for war.
And on her left collarbone, I saw it—those birds. Flying away. A tattoo she didn’t have as a child, but somehow makes perfect sense now.
She was fifteen when she disappeared.
I was nineteen. Old enough to know what really happened to her parents.
Old enough to know my father had their deaths signed, sealed, and delivered like a warning to the rest of the city.
He said they crossed a line.
Truth was, they spoke too freely.
And in our world—the Rossi family’s world—that kind of mistake meant a one-way trip to the fire yard.
She wasn’t home that night. We thought she died with them.
But now, I see her, alive, dancing in my club like she owns it.
And suddenly, every scar on my back itches like it was burned into me yesterday.
I have ink too. A map of pain across my skin.
My chest bears the most intricate of my tattoos—etched symbols, reminders of power, heritage, and silence. My left shoulder wears the Rossi family’s motto: Onore. Sangue. Silenzio.
Honor. Blood. Silence.
The men who walk with me know the code.
I’m the new head now. The heir who took over when the old bastard finally met his end.
But when one of them recognized Viviana, dared to mention what should’ve been done?
I told him I’d slice his manhood off and feed it to his wife if he touched her.
And they got the message.
She’s not a loose end. She’s not a threat.
She’s mine.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
