THE FIRST TIME
3092 Words
BRIAN
Three months ago.
The moment I see her, I know she's lying.
She’s standing at the bar in my club—not one of the fight clubs in Red Hook, the legitimate one in Manhattan—wearing a black dress that’s too tight and heels that are too high. Playing the part. Pretty girl looking for a sugar daddy. I’ve seen a hundred versions of her.
But this one’s different.
This one keeps glancing at the VIP section. Not interested, exactly. More like… cataloging. Taking notes. Her eyes are sharp behind the false eyelashes and the come-f**k-me smile.
I should ignore her. I have business tonight. Meeting with the Moretti family about territorial disputes. The last thing I knew was some opportunistic college girl trying to bag a mobster.
But there’s something about her face. Something familiar.
Marco leans over. “That’s the third time she’s looked at you.”
“I know.”
“Want me to handle it?”
“No.” I stand. “I’ll handle it myself.”
I walk over. She doesn’t see me until I’m right beside her. Then she turns and—
Fuck.
Up close, she’s devastating. Brown skin. Dark eyes. Full mouth. But it’s her expression that gets me. That fake sultry smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. The slight tension in her shoulders like she’s ready to bolt.
“Hi,” she says. Voice breathy. Playing the part. “I’m Ria.”
Liar.
“Brian,” I signaled to the bartender. “What are you drinking?”
“Vodka tonic.”
I order two. Study her while she pretends not to notice. She’s young. Early twenties maybe. Too young to be in a place like this. Too smart—I can see it in the way she holds herself—to be here by accident.
“So what do you do, Brian?” She sips her drink. “Let me guess. Finance?”
“Something like that.” I lean against the bar. “And you?”
“Waitress. Between jobs actually. Just moved to the city.”
More lies. Her hands are soft. No calluses from restaurant work. And her clothes—cheap, but deliberately so. Like she’s playing dress-up.
Interesting.
“From where?” I ask.
“Queens.” She met my eyes. Steady. Practiced. “You probably don’t know it. Small neighborhood. Nothing special.”
I know Queens. Every street. Every block. Part of Valente territory.
“Try me,” I say.
She names an neighborhood. I know it’s a lie because that area’s controlled by the Morettis and no one from there would walk into a Valente club without backup.
I decided to play along.
“Can I buy you another drink?” I ask.
“Sure.” She smiles. “Or we could skip the drinks, and you could show me your place.”
Jesus Christ. She’s bold. I’ll give her that.
“You always proposition men you just met?”
“Only the interesting ones.” She runs her finger along the rim of her glass. “And you look very interesting.”
I should say no. Should send Marco to investigate her. Should have followed her, her background checked, every lie she'd told dissected.
Instead, I say, “My car’s outside.”
Her eyes widen. Just for a second. Surprise. She didn’t expect me to say yes.
But she recovers quickly. Downs her drink. “Lead the way.”
In the car, she’s quiet. Looking out the window. I watch her reflection in the glass. She’s nervous. Her knee bounces slightly. She catches herself, stops, forces her body still.
Whatever she’s planning, she’s scared.
Good. She should be.
We arrive at my penthouse. She takes it in—the view, the art, the obvious wealth—and I see the calculation in her eyes. Not greed, though. Something else. Something darker.
“Nice place,” she says.
“Thanks.” I pour scotch. Two glasses. Hand her one.
She takes it but doesn’t drink. “So are you going to tell me what you really do? Because I’m pretty sure finance guys don’t have this kind of security.” She nods toward the keypad by the door. The cameras. The reinforced locks.
Smart girl.
“What do you think I do?” I ask.
“Something illegal.” She sips the scotch. Doesn’t flinch even though it’s expensive and strong. “Something dangerous.”
“Does that scare you?”
“No.” She sets the glass down. Walks toward me. Slow. Deliberate. “I like dangerous things.”
She’s standing in front of me now. Close enough to touch. Close enough, I can smell her perfume—something cheap and floral that doesn’t match the rest of her performance.
I should stop this. Figure out what she wants. Why she’s here.
But when she reaches up and kisses me, I let her.
Her mouth tastes like vodka and lies. I kiss her back hard, gripping her hips, pulling her against me. She gasps into my mouth. I swallow the sound.
“Bedroom,” she whispers.
“No.”
I spin her around. Press her against the window. Manhattan spreads out below us. Millions of lights. She braces her hands against the glass.
“Here,” I say into her ear. “Where everyone can see.”
She shivers. “We’re too high up. No one can see.”
“Maybe.” I slide my hand under her dress. She’s not wearing anything underneath. “Or maybe someone’s watching. Maybe I want them to see you fall apart.”
I find her wet. Ready. Has she been turned on this whole time? Was this her plan—seduce me for information?
If so, I’ll make sure she earns every secret.
I push two fingers inside her. She moans. Loud. Her forehead presses against the glass.
“You like that?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“You want more?”
“Yes. Please.”
I add another finger. f**k her with my hand while my other hand wraps around her throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Reminding her who’s in control.
She comes within minutes. Shaking. Gasping my name.
Before she recovers, I unzip my pants. Enter her from behind in one hard thrust.
She cries out. I freeze.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No. No, don’t stop.”
But something’s wrong. She’s tight. Too tight. Her body’s tense in a way that has nothing to do with pleasure.
And then I realized.
“f**k. Are you a virgin?”
She doesn’t answer. Just pushes back against me. “Keep going.”
“Maria—”
She freezes. “What did you call me?”
Shit. The name slipped out. But now that it’s out there—
’That’s your name, isn'tn't it?” pull out. She spins around. Terror in her eyes, “said Maria Santos. Sarah’s little sister.”
“I don’t know what you're talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” I zip up my pants. Pour myself more scotch. “You look like her. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
She’s backing toward the door. “I need to go.”
“Sit down.”
“Fuck you.”
“We have already done that. And you enjoyed it. Now sit the f**k down.”
She stands there. Trembling. Half-naked. Terrified. But she doesn’t run.
Interesting.
“How long have you been planning this?” I ask. “The seduction. The infiltration. How long?”
“I don’t—”
“Two years?” I studied her. “Since Sarah died? Is that when you decided to destroy us?”
“She didn’t just die,” Maria’s voice cracks. “She was murdered. And your family did it.”
“I know.”
That stops her. “What?”
“I know she was murdered.” I sit on the couch. “I’ve been investigating it myself. Vincent ordered it. I just can’t prove it yet.”
She stares at me. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” I hold her gaze. “Sarah was killed because she witnessed something. A murder. Federal witness. Vincent’s killer, but she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He couldn’t let her talk.”
“And you knew this whole time? You let him—”
“I didn’t know. Not until six months ago. I found evidence. Started digging. And then you showed up.” I leaned back. “You’ve been investigating too. Probably think I was involved.”
“Weren’t you?”
“No.” I say flat. Simple. “But I understand why you’d think so. Vincent and I run the family businesses. To outsiders, we’re the same. But we’re not.”
She’s crying now. Silent tears down her face. She doesn’t wipe them away.
“Why should I believe you?” she whispers.
“Because I’m the only one who can help you.” I stand. Walk to her. She doesn’t back away. “You want revenge. So do I. Vincent’s a liability. A psychopath. He needs to be removed.”
“Removed?”
“Killed, Maria. I’m going to kill my brother. And you’re going to help me.”
She laughs. Hysterical. Broken. “You’re insane.”
“, Maybe.” wiped I wipe her tears away. Gentle. “But you came here tonight ready to do whatever it took. You gave me your virginity thinking it would buy you information. You were willing to f**k the enemy.” I lean close. “So tell me, Maria Santos. How far are you willing to go?”
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she kisses me.
And this time, when I carry her to my bedroom, when I lay her down on my bed and make love to her slowly, carefully, treating her body like something precious—this time, it’s not a game.
This time, it’s the beginning of war.
Afterward, she falls asleep in my arms. I stay awake. Watching her. This beautiful, damaged girl who walked into my life was planning my destruction.
I should kill her. That’s what Vincent would do.
But I’m not Vincent.
And maybe—just maybe—Maria Santos is exactly what I need.
Not just for revenge.
For something else.
Something I stopped believing in a long time ago.
My phone buzzes. Text from Marco:
Need anything?
I look at Maria sleeping. Her dark hair spread across my pillow. Her face was peaceful for the first time tonight.
No. I’m good.
I am good. Better than I’ve been in years.
Because, for the first time since my mother died, I have a purpose beyond the family.
I have Maria.
And together, we’re going to burn Vincent’s world down.
- Writer
