Bound to the Don

The dress was a mistake and I knew it the second I stepped out of the cab. Red leather, too short, too tight, sticking to my skin with every step. I kept tugging the hem down but it never stayed. The back entrance of The Black Crown smelled like cigarette smoke and rain. The bouncer looked me over once, eyes lingering on my thighs, then opened the door without asking for a name. Inside, the air was heavier. Low music. Dark suits. Eyes that followed me like I already belonged to someone. I walked straight toward the private stairs like I had every right to be there. Three years of closed doors, I thought, and this is what it’s come to. A hand closed around my upper arm before I reached the first step. “Name.” “Sofia.” The lie came out steady even though my pulse was slamming against my throat. The man holding me didn’t believe it. I saw it in the flat look he gave me. Still, he jerked his head toward the stairs. “Boss is waiting. Don’t make him wait longer than you already have.” I climbed. Every step made the dress ride higher. At the top another man searched me without speaking, hands rough, deliberate, sliding under the leather, between my thighs, across my breasts. He found nothing. I had brought nothing on purpose. The door at the end of the hall opened. Luciano Varela sat behind a black desk like the shadows had arranged themselves around him. Tall. Dark hair pushed back from a face that looked carved and unfriendly. Eyes the color of wet asphalt. He didn’t stand when I walked in. He simply watched me, slow and thorough, the way a man looks at something he has already decided he can break. “Close the door.” I closed it. Silence stretched. He let it sit between us until my skin started to feel too tight. “You’re not Sofia,” he said at last. His voice was low, almost calm. “You’re Isla Reyes. Your parents died in a warehouse fire three years ago that wasn’t an accident. You’ve been asking dangerous questions ever since. And tonight you walked into my club in a dress that says you’re ready to pay with something other than money.” My stomach dropped, but I kept my face still. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Luciano’s mouth moved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t insult me. I knew who you were the second you stepped out of the cab. I let you come up here because I wanted to see how far you’d actually go.” He stood. The movement was unhurried. He walked around the desk and stopped a few feet away, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “You want names,” he said. “You want the men who ordered that fire. You think I have them.” I didn’t answer. “I do.” He tilted his head slightly. “But I don’t hand out information for free. Especially not to pretty little things who think spreading their legs is a clever strategy.” Heat rushed up my neck. Shame and something sharper tangled hard in my chest. Of course he would say it like that, I thought bitterly. *Make it sound like I’m the one inventing the price. “I’m not—” “You are.” His voice stayed quiet. “You’re here because every other door slammed in your face. You’re desperate. And desperation makes people honest eventually.” He stepped closer. I forced myself not to move back. “I’ll give you one chance,” he said. “Walk out right now. Go home. Stop asking questions. Live whatever is left of your life. Or stay… and accept that the only currency I’ll take is you.” My pulse hammered so hard I could feel it in my teeth. Three years of dead ends flashed behind my eyes, the smell of smoke that never left my nightmares, my mother’s hand going cold, the empty house that still smelled like her. I can survive this, I told myself. I’ve survived worse. I stayed. Something dark and satisfied moved through Luciano’s eyes. For half a second he looked at me longer than necessary, as if the fact that I hadn’t walked out unsettled him in a way he didn’t like. Then the expression vanished. “On your knees.” I stared at him. “I won’t say it twice.” My legs folded. The floor was cold even through the thin fabric of the dress. I kept my eyes on his shoes until his fingers slid under my chin and forced my face up. “Say it,” he ordered. “Tell me why you’re on your knees in my office.” My voice came out rough. “Because I need what you know.” “Not good enough.” I swallowed. “Because I’m willing to be used for it.” “Again. Louder.” “I’m willing to be used for it.” Luciano’s thumb brushed the edge of my mouth. “Good girl.” The words were soft, almost gentle, and somehow that made them worse. “You’ll come to my penthouse tomorrow night at nine. You’ll wear something that gives me easy access. You’ll do exactly what I tell you. In return, I’ll decide how much truth you deserve.” He released my chin. “Get up.” I stood on unsteady legs. The dress had ridden up again. I didn’t pull it down. Luciano walked back to his desk and sat, already finished with me. “If you don’t show,” he said without looking up, “I’ll assume you changed your mind. And I’ll make sure every remaining door in this city stays closed to you permanently.” I turned and walked out. The hallway felt longer on the way down. The music downstairs was louder. Men still watched me, but none of them touched me. Word traveled fast in places like this. Outside, the night air hit my burning face. I stood on the sidewalk with my arms wrapped around myself and tried to remember how to breathe normally. I had just offered myself to the most dangerous man in the city. And the worst part was that I already knew I would show up tomorrow night. Because the alternative was another year of silence, another year of not knowing, another year of living with the taste of smoke in the back of my throat. I pulled the dress down one last time and started walking. Nine o’clock tomorrow. I would be there.