The Secret from Columbia

Velvet and Venom

The Velvet Room lived up to its name in a way that felt almost suffocating. Tucked away in a discreet basement in the heart of Greenwich Village, behind an unmarked metal door, the bar was a labyrinth of crimson velvet armchairs, amber lights strategically placed to mask faces, and a heavy aroma—a thick blend of essential oils, hookah smoke, and the expensive cologne of men who didn't need names.

Beatriz entered, feeling the weight of her leather jacket on her shoulders. She knew this was Vincenzo Valenti’s hunting ground. She wasn't naive, but that night, the cunning she had inherited from her father—a military man who had taught her about poisons and predators—failed her in a split second of distraction.

"You came. Magnificent, just as I imagined," Vincenzo’s voice drifted from her right, as smooth as a serpent sliding over silk.

He was leaning against the polished mahogany bar, wearing a light linen suit. Vincenzo’s green eyes raked over her with ill-disguised lechery. Beatriz tried to maintain a safety perimeter, but Vincenzo was quick to signal the bartender. While he spoke of "modern partnerships" and how Nicholas Moretti was a man of "outdated methods," Beatriz felt her throat go dry. When the martini glass slid toward her, she believed she was in control.

She faked the first sip, but in an orchestrated move, Vincenzo touched her arm to draw her attention to a detail on the bar. In that second of diversion, the substance was already there. When she brought the glass to her lips again, the chemical taste was nearly imperceptible. But the effect was anything but.

Five minutes later, what should have been Beatriz’s performance became a terrifying reality. Her vision began to double. The heat in the bar grew unbearable, and her legs, once steady, turned to jelly.

"It’s a bit... hot," she murmured, but this time, she wasn't faking. The syllables stumbled over one another involuntarily.

Vincenzo smiled, a triumphant, predatory glint in his eyes. He closed in fast, placing a possessive hand on her shoulder.

"Let’s go somewhere more private, cara mia," he said, his tone losing its polite veneer.

Beatriz tried to resist, but her body wouldn't obey. Panic began to claw at her throat. She tried to reach for the pocketknife in her boot, but her fingers were numb. Vincenzo guided her toward the back exit, a narrow, dark corridor. As they crossed the iron door into the damp alleyway, the cold air didn't wake her up; it only made her stumble more.

Driven by pure survival instinct, she managed to wrench herself from Vincenzo’s grip for a second and tried to run. Her steps were erratic, the world spinning in a kaleidoscope of shadows and neon lights. That’s when she slammed into something solid. A wall of muscle and expensive fabric.

Nicholas Moretti was standing at the end of the alley.

Beatriz crashed into his chest, his hands instantly flying up to catch her by the arms before she hit the dirty asphalt. She lifted her clouded eyes and recognized him.

"Nicholas..." her whisper came out broken.

Vincenzo appeared right behind her, stopping dead at the sight of Moretti’s towering silhouette. The air in the alley seemed to charge with static electricity. Nicholas looked down at Beatriz—disoriented, pupils dilated, body trembling—and then at Vincenzo.

In that moment, a collision of feelings erupted inside Nicholas: an overwhelming protective instinct for Beatriz that burned him from the inside out, and a superhuman hatred for Vincenzo. Nicholas’s jaw clamped shut so hard the click was audible. He was no longer just the businessman; he was the predator whose territory had been violated in the most sordid way possible.

"Nicholas!" Vincenzo tried to laugh, but the sound died in his throat when he saw Nicholas’s eyes. "She just had a little too much fun..."

Nicholas didn't give him time for explanations. He handed Beatriz's weight over to his head of security, Lorenzo, who had emerged from the shadows, and charged at Vincenzo like an avenging demon. The punch he delivered wasn't just a strike; it was the discharge of all his pent-up rage. He pinned Vincenzo against the wall, his hand crushing the Valenti heir's throat until his face turned purple.

"If she has so much as a scratch on her, I’ll forget the Council, I’ll forget the truce, and I will personally rip your tongue out so you can never deceive anyone again," Nicholas growled, his voice vibrating at a lethal frequency.

He shoved Vincenzo away, who collapsed coughing, and turned back to Beatriz. He scooped her up with a possessive urgency, ignoring the girl's weak protests. He carried her to the armored SUV, his heart beating in the same frantic rhythm as hers. The drive to the Upper East Side was made in a sepulchral silence, broken only by Beatriz’s heavy sighs in the back seat, while Nicholas drove with one hand on the wheel and the other trying, uselessly, to steady his own trembling fury.