chapter seven
916 Words
THE FIRST c***k
Later that night, after closing, Clara stepped out into the alley behind the club. The city’s night air was thick with exhaust and the faint tang of garbage. She pulled her jacket tighter around her.
Footsteps echoed behind her. She spun—too quickly.
Alessandro.
He leaned against the brick wall, cigarette glowing between his fingers. “You’re jumpy.”
“I didn’t expect company.”
“Maybe you should.” He flicked ash onto the ground, his gaze fixed on her. “This city isn’t kind to women walking alone at night.”
Clara tried to mask the tremor in her voice. “And what about you? Are you kind?”
Alessandro stepped closer, close enough that the heat of him brushed against her skin. “No,” he said softly. “But I can be dangerous in the right direction.”
Her breath caught. She hated how much she wanted to believe him.
“I don’t need protecting,” she whispered.
He studied her for a long, heavy moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he brushed past her, his voice low in her ear.
“Maybe not. But you’ll have it anyway.”
Clara stood frozen as he disappeared into the night, her heart racing. She pressed a hand to her chest, whispering to herself:
You’re losing control, Clara. You’re supposed to be hunting him, not falling for him
Rain hammered the streets that night, slicking the pavement outside Club Inferno. Inside, Alessandro sat at the bar instead of the VIP booth, his presence drawing nervous glances from staff and patrons alike. Clara tried to keep her distance, but he didn’t allow it.
“Clara,” he called, voice low but commanding.
She walked over, tray clutched tight against her hip. “What is it?”
He gestured to the empty stool beside him. “Sit.”
She hesitated. “I’m working.”
“You work for me,” he said evenly. “Sit.”
Her pulse thrummed, but she slid onto the stool. Alessandro studied her face in silence for a long moment. Finally, he said:
“You don’t belong here.”
Her throat tightened. “Meaning what?”
“You don’t move like the others. You don’t talk like them. Even the way you look at me—it’s different. You’re not afraid.”
Clara forced a faint smile. “Maybe I just don’t scare easy.”
His eyes narrowed. “Everyone scares easy, Clara. They just hide it. What are you hiding?”
Her heart pounded. She couldn’t lie too big—it would draw more suspicion. But the truth was death.
“I told you,” she said softly. “I needed a job.”
Alessandro leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You needed this job? Out of all the bars in New York, you walked into mine?”
For the first time, Clara faltered. “Maybe I like the music.”
He smirked faintly, shaking his head. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Before she could respond, Luca appeared behind them, his tone sharp. “Ale. We need to talk. Now.”
Alessandro’s jaw tightened. He stood, glancing once more at Clara before following Luca toward the office.
---
In the upstairs office, Luca closed the door and dropped a folder onto the desk. Inside were surveillance photos—grainy shots of Clara entering her apartment, leaving at odd hours, carrying a laptop bag.
“She’s not clean,” Luca said flatly. “I don’t know who she is yet, but she’s hiding something. Look at this—her address doesn’t match the paperwork she gave. The references don’t check out.”
Alessandro flipped through the photos, his face unreadable. “So you’ve been digging.”
“Because you won’t,” Luca snapped. “You’re letting her too close. And if she’s a cop, or worse—a reporter—we’re done.”
For a long moment, Alessandro stared at the photos. Then he closed the folder, slid it back across the desk, and said quietly:
“Keep watching. Don’t touch her. Not yet.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed. “Ale—”
“I said not yet.” Alessandro’s tone cut like glass. “If she’s playing a game, I’ll let her think she’s winning. That’s how you see the whole board.”
Luca exhaled sharply, but didn’t argue. Not this time.
---
Downstairs, Bianca slipped onto a barstool beside Clara, tossing her damp hair back from the rain.
“My brother likes you,” Bianca said casually.
Clara startled. “What?”
Bianca smirked. “Don’t act surprised. I see the way he looks at you. And trust me—he doesn’t look at anyone like that.”
Clara forced a nervous laugh. “Maybe you’re imagining things.”
Bianca leaned closer, her perfume sweet and sharp. “No. I know him. He doesn’t let people in. Ever. So whatever you’re doing, be careful. Because if you hurt him…”
Her voice hardened, eyes suddenly cold. “…he won’t be the only one bleeding.”
Clara’s stomach twisted as Bianca hopped off the stool, all lightness again, waving on her way to the dance floor.
Clara sat frozen, the weight of the warning heavy on her chest.
That night, in her apartment, she opened her laptop. The cursor blinked in her notes:
Alessandro suspects me. Luca is digging. Bianca… protective, unpredictable.
Her fingers hovered, then typed:
And I don’t know if I can keep lying to him.
- Writer
