In Love With The Mafia Kings Son

Chapter 18

Outside the fight venue, the group was already waiting on the curb. Isabella, Chloe, and Dylan were clustered together, the air thick with the faint scent of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. Isabella and Chloe were talking, their transformed figures shimmering in the harsh streetlights.

A moment later, Dante emerged from the arena doors. He looked completely different from the warrior in the cage. He wore a black silk button-up shirt, the top three buttons undone to reveal the dark, thick muscle of his chest. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, highlighting his massive forearms. Paired with dark blue jeans, the look was pure, aggressive confidence.

Isabella smirked at him, tossing her cigarette to the ground. "Are we ready?"

Dante shrugged, his movements slow and assured. "Ready when you are."

Isabella immediately headed for the waiting stretch limo. Dante, however, walked straight toward his black Shelby GT500.

As he reached his car, he noticed Chloe trying to follow him, moving with the practiced assumption of a long-standing routine.

Dante stopped, his expression hardening. He narrowed his eyes at her. "What do you think you're doing?"

Chloe looked confused, her seductive smile faltering. "I'm riding with you, like I always do."

Dante tightened his jaw. He wasn't debating; he was issuing an order. He pointed toward the stretch limo where Isabella was waiting. "Get in the limo, Chloe."

Chloe's chest heaved slightly, the humiliation of the public refusal causing a visible crack in her aggressive facade. "But—"

Dante cut her off, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low growl. "Now."

Chloe stared at him for one final, desperate moment, realizing the fight was over. She turned and, with rigid posture, climbed into the limo, her rejection settling heavy in the air.

Letty, who had witnessed the entire brutal exchange, pretended not to have noticed. She quickly adjusted her dress and was about to enter the limo, hoping to dissolve into the group, when Dante's voice stopped her.

"Where do you think you're going, little one?"

Letty turned back, startled. She looked around, then back at his intimidating figure. "To the club?"

Dante smirked, his eyes sweeping over her transformed figure—the dress, the bold makeup, the clear exposure. "You're riding with me. Get in."

Letty hesitated for a second, her mind grappling with the explicit claim. She felt a surge of fear for Chloe's inevitable wrath, but the thrill of Dante's preference was irresistible. She did as she was told, walking over to the Shelby and getting in the passenger seat.

Dante didn't wait. He walked around, slid into the driver's side, and pulled out onto the road, leaving the shocked whispers of his friends and the silent fury of Chloe behind.

The powerful engine of the Shelby roared to life, devouring the miles toward the club. The air inside the car was thick with unspoken tension, a consequence of Dante’s public claim and Chloe’s cold rejection.

Letty felt the subtle effects of the Margarita—a pleasant buzz that loosened her inhibitions but heightened her nerves. Subconsciously, she kept trying to pull the shimmering minidress down, feeling utterly exposed. The short hemline of the ruched fabric resisted, riding up slightly to expose more of her caramel-colored thigh.

Dante noticed. Out of the corner of his eye, he tracked the small, anxious movements. A predatory smirk played on his lips, recognizing her discomfort as another form of surrender. The sight of her soft, exposed skin, framed by the harsh fabric of the dress, sent a familiar rush through him. Her skin looked smooth and silky, and he felt an immediate, consuming urge to confirm that softness.

Like his hand had a mind of its own, he slowly reached across the console. His massive hand, warm and firm, settled just above her knee.

Letty’s breath hitched—a sharp, immediate sound of shock. The contact was static electricity and granite all at once. Her mind was a frantic scream: Slap his hand away! Get out! Stop this! But her body had already betrayed her. Instead of recoiling, she shifted slightly, separating her thighs just enough to grant him better, non-verbal access.

Dante took the subtle shift as the invitation it was. He slowly began to slide his hand up her leg, the rough pad of his thumb gently caressing her skin. He moved with agonizing slowness, ascending past her mid-thigh until he reached the hem of her minidress.

The cool metallic fabric bunched beneath his fingers.

He paused for a charged second, then slowly moved his hand further inward, tracing the sensitive skin just inches from her core.

Letty’s pulse quickened even faster, hammering a frenetic beat against her ribs. Sensations flooded her body, a hot, liquid rush that settled deep in her core. She was enjoying the feeling—the danger, the disobedience, the absolute powerlessness. Her skin prickled with anticipation, and her core slowly began to throb, craving more of the potent, forbidden attention.

Dante gently caressed his thumb along the smooth expanse of her thigh. Her skin was softer than he had ever imagined, fueling an intense hunger to push the boundary further.

Just as the tension reached its breaking point, the black Shelby decelerated, turning sharply into a valet lane. The bright, cacophonous lights of the exclusive nightclub flooded the car's interior.

Dante slammed on the brakes. The sudden stop snapped him out of the intense fog of desire, and he looked around, realizing he had pulled the black Shelby up to the main entrance of the club. He had been so absorbed in Letty's reaction, so focused on the soft, yielding heat of her thigh beneath his hand, that his body had driven on autopilot.

The valet was already at the door, pulling it open.

Letty was dazed, her thoughts scattered by the abrupt break in intimacy. She stepped out of the car and looked at the venue. It was sleek, modern, and classy, the facade dark with low lighting, radiating exclusivity.

Her eyes fell on a large, illuminated sign by the entrance. It was clear and unambiguous:

"WE CARD. NO ONE UNDER 21 WILL ENTER. FAKE IDs ARE A FELONY."

Letty felt a sharp, cold wave of panic. She and the rest of the group was eighteen. Her mind instantly pictured the humiliation, the legal trouble, and the exposure of being turned away. The panic intensified to the point she thought she might be sick.

Before she could form a protest or turn to run, a big, strong hand settled on the small of her back, gently guiding her forward. Dante was behind her, his touch a possessive certainty.

The rest of the group—Isabella, Chloe, Lisa, and the boys—piled out of the limo, giggling and talking, clearly having finished the champagne. They flowed toward the entrance.

Letty’s throat tightened as she saw the massive bouncer standing guard. But as the group reached the entrance, the bouncer’s intimidating demeanor dissolved. He immediately looked at Isabella and

Dante with professional deference.

“Have a good night, Mr. and Miss Rossi,” the bouncer said, giving a respectful nod.

He unlatched the red velvet rope and let the entire group through without a single ID check.

Letty entered the club, utterly confused. She furrowed her brow and glanced back at Dante.

Dante gently leaned down, his lips close to her ear, the gravelly murmur of his voice cutting through the thrumming bass of the club music. He chuckled, a soft, satisfied sound.

“We don’t wait for permission, Nicolette,” he whispered. “We own the club.”

The hair on the back of Letty's neck stood slightly. But this time, the feeling wasn't terror. It was a potent, dangerous thrill—the realization that with Dante, she was outside the law, inside the untouchable core of power.