A Mafia Werewolf Romance

Chapter 5: The Country Clube

The country club was lush and green-the color of money-and the air itself seemed to possess a freshness born of affluence. Yet, the temperature was just as ruthlessly scorching as money can be cold.

Sera followed a step behind Dante along the gravel path; clad in a white dress, she felt the blazing sun strike the back of her neck like a heavy fist. Sera had never quite understood the sport of golf. A group of people would stand around with clubs, taking turns to swing, watching a small ball fly off, roll and roll, and drop into a hole-only for the cycle to repeat. It looked elegant enough, but the endless waiting seemed tedious; she failed to see the appeal, yet it had somehow become the default pastime for the wealthy.

Men in light-colored shirts emerged from the clubhouse to shake Dante's hand, and with every handshake, their gazes would invariably linger on her for a fraction of a second too long.

Sera didn't play, and Dante had no intention of involving her. Her role was simply to sit on the sidelines and look beautiful-to be a piece of eye candy. But sometimes, being a silent ornament is difficult. When one is too beautiful, attracting unwanted attention is

inevitable.

"Stay close to me," Dante said without looking back.

The first hour was a blur of golf clubs, carts, and conversations she couldn't follow. She learned to stand within his shadow-a broad, cool patch of shade-and whenever a caddie feigned uncertainty about which club to choose, she would hand the right one to Dante herself. His technique was surgically precise. He never needed to strike the same ball twice, and the men around them seemed less interested in his score than in his mercurial moods.

It was on the seventh green that Julian Black found Sera. He emerged from the clubhouse with the air of a yacht gliding out of port; his sunglasses were pushed up into his blond hair, and a smile played on his lips-a smile that had already bloomed in her direction before he'd even consciously decided to offer it. Another handsome man with a mature charm, Sierra thought; he was tall-well over six feet-with an off-white T-shirt lending him a youthful, energetic vibe, while casual athletic pants hugged his longlegs, revealing their lean, powerful shape. His attire was simple, save for a single, exquisite-looking watch on his left wrist. Sierra had seen his type at school fundraisers: wealthy scions with gazes that clung like clammy palms.

"Dante." Julian clasped Dante's hand firmly. "And who is this? I hope you aren't planning to keep her all to yourself. "

"A guest." Julian rolled the word around on his tongue. "I like guests.

Over the next four holes, he made a point of walking beside her. He kept a distance that was neither too close nor too far, yet just right for his shoulder to brush casually against hers along the path. He placed a hand on the small of her back to guide her around a sand trap, acting as if she were someone who needed help finding her way.

"Watch your step," he said. "Pretty girls can easily trip out here. "

She sidestepped away, but he immediately moved closer to match her.

By the fourteenth hole, his arm was draped around her shoulders, his thumb tracing small circles on her bare skin, while her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She began searching for Dante. He was forty yards away, lining up a putt. For the first time, she realized just how isolated she was-how far help would be from the putting green once a man's hands began to wander. "Relax." Julian's breath, smelling of mint and gin, brushed against her ear. "Darling, Dante shares everything with his friends. Ask anyone-ask me."

She pulled away. His fingers clamped around her wrist-just hard enough to cause pain-before he laughed and let go, raising his hands in surrender. "So shy. I love it when they're shy."

At the next hole, she made an excuse to head to the clubhouse. The corridor inside was long, empty, and freezing cold; she leaned against the wall near the locker room, struggling to steady her breathing.

Footsteps.

Julian's figure seemed to fill the entire hallway as he loosened his collar.

"So, here you are," he said with a smile. "We aren't finished talking yet."She backed away. At the end of the corridor stood a locked service door-a dead end hemmed in by dark wood and dim lighting. He kept closing the distance, and she-with an animal instinct-realized in an instant that no one was coming to save her. She was alone with a man who believed he could claim her simply because she belonged to the man who had already paid for her.

"Come on, darling." He reached out toward her. "Don't make this boring."

Sierra was terrified, yet her face was flushed a deep red-burning with the heat of her anger,

Julian was momentarily mesmerized; at first glance, that fresh, youthful face had seemed exquisitely elegant. Up close, however, those misty, soulful eyes were intoxicating. How could such a pure face possess such alluring, narrow eyes? The upward tilt of her brows held a sultry, flirtatious charm-she was born to seduce men. Now, her angry expression gave her face a rosy glow, like the finest rouge-charming yet utterly pure. And those eyes he adored so much-the corners were tinged with red, as if, at any moment, crystal-clear, pitiful tears might spill over. As if under a spell, he lowered his head, greedily wanting to kiss her lips-lips more delicate than any flower.

Just then, footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. These weren't the soft scuffs of golf shoes against the floor, but slow, heavy strides. A shadow stretched down the hallway, arriving well before the person rounding the corner came into view.

Julian's hand froze just six inches from her arm.

"Sierra."

Dante's voice was low and steady, filling the corridor like cold water.

"Come here."

Julian's hand dropped abruptly, as if burned by the air itself.

He turned around, already wearing that politician's smile, but Dante didn't even look at him. Dante was staring at Sierra; there was something in his gaze that made the hallway feel narrower and dimmer, as if they were at the bottom of the deep sea.

'"Come here," he repeated.

Before she could even make a conscious decision, her legs carried her toward him of their own accord. He gripped her upper arm firmly and pulled her behind him, his eyes never leaving Julian. Sheltered behind him, the world seemed to go quiet and safe-and she hated herself for trusting that sense of safety so easily.

"Dante." Julian spread his hands with a smile. "We were just chatting. The girl gets nervous too easily."

The punch came without warning.

One moment Julian was speaking; the next, Dante's fist was cutting through the space where Julian's face had been. Julian slammed hard against the lockers with a dull thud-like a bag of golf clubs hitting concrete. Blood stained his mouth. He spat, and a white object skittered across the floor tiles, coming to a stop right beside Sierra's shoe.

It was a tooth.

A wave of nausea washed over her. The locker room door opened; alerted by the commotion, a group of men in light-colored shirts flooded the corridor, led by Gerald Black. Upon seeing the blood, the tooth, and the wretched sight of his son struggling in vain to stand, the name he had been about to shout died in his throat.

"Mr. Moretti," Gerald's voice wavered slightly. "Whatever happened, my son can explain. There's no need to take this outside the club; we can sit down, have a drink, and work it out calmly."

Dante unhurriedly lowered his sleeve, his wrist rotating with an air of composed ease. "Your son laid a hand on something that belongs to me."

"It was an accident-a misunderstanding. He's still young."

"Young." Dante glanced at Julian-who remained slumped on the floor, blood dripping onto his collar. "If he's young, then he won't die. But I have lost faith in you-and in your company.

A deathly silence fell over the corridor. Gerald Black stood there, mouth agape; Sera watched as a man lost everything because of a single sentence-watching his face turn instantly ashen, watching the sycophants who relied on him begin to calculate in their minds whom they should turn to next.

Paying them little further heed, Dante examined Sera closely; finding no visible injuries, he took her hand and led her away.

'All contracts between Black Holdings and the 'Eclipse' project," Dante announced- his voice carrying across the room, intended for everyone present-"are under immediate review." He turned, his arm circling Sera's waist, and guided her past the frozen men, through the club, and out into the blinding sunlight.

Dante held Sera so tightly she felt as though he were trying to merge her into his very body. It hurt a little; his muscles were rock-hard, and she felt bruised against them. Yet, she dared not cry out in pain, for Dante's expression was grim; even if she were slow- witted, she could sense the rage radiating from him.

Biting her lip, she endured it in silence and followed him. He walked briskly, quickly reaching the parking lot where his subordinates, having received orders, were already waiting.

He shoved her into the car as if venting his anger on her-treating her not like a person deserving of care, but like a hardened criminal he was determined to punish.

She tumbled into the vehicle, her face burying into the seat cushion. Fortunately, the upholstery was soft, sparing her from injury. She propped herself up with her hands, struggling to rise in a disheveled state.

Dante ducked inside, slamming the door shut with a thunderous *bang* that echoed his fury.

"Drive!"

Dante's voice was thick with undisguised rage.

His well-trained subordinate immediately started the engine, and the sleek Porsche

sped off like a black stallion.

She finally managed to right herself and glanced up at him in a panic, filled with sheer terror. He sat there with an air of languid ease, yet his dark eyes held the brewing intensity of a violent storm. His breathtakingly handsome face was set in a tense, rigid mask. At that moment, he resembled a sword half-drawn from its scabbard; the slightest provocation would unleash the blade-and it would undoubtedly draw blood.

She shuddered, realizing she had never encountered anyone with such an overwhelming presence-an aura so powerful it inspired fear and kept others at a distance. Lowering her head, she surreptitiously shifted her hips-inching away, then inching further still-until she had curled herself into the far corner of the seat.

One hand rested on his thigh, a single finger tapping rhythmically as if playing the piano; to Lin Meng, that gesture made him look as though he were plotting something against someone. When his fingers stopped moving, he suddenly turned his head to look at her; his eyes were sharp as swords.

She swallowed hard, gazing at him with trepidation.

He raised an eyebrow and smiled, but the smile sent a chill down Sera's spine.

'Come here!"

His command made her even more anxious. She hesitated, unsure whether she should approach. Suddenly, his smile vanished; his expression turned icy, and his voice dropped to a furious, menacing growl, like that of a savage beast.

"Come here-don't make me say it a third time!"

His cold, fierce eyes narrowed-a sign that a murderous intent had stirred within him.

She gasped, wishing she could simply open the car door and jump out. Yet, jumping meant risking death or, at the very least, permanent disability. Terrified, she had no choice but to move closer to him; her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, fluttering like a frightened rabbit.

He reached out and gripped her chin-somewhat cruelly, mirroring the way Julian had done moments before-and asked, "Where did he touch you?" touched her arm with her finger. "Here!"

Her face paled slightly. Under his menacing gaze, she licked her dry lips and, trembling,

"Just here?"

"Mm-hmm." She nodded vigorously.

His eyes darkened. He lowered his head, extended his tongue, and gave her lips light, lingering lick before pulling back. He studied the small face before him-so pitiful and vulnerable, yet utterly alluring.

"What a beautiful face."

It was impossible to tell if he was speaking in admiration or mockery; regardless, Dante lowered his head and kissed her. At first, the kiss was gentle; his tongue swept softly over her lips, cleansing them thoroughly-leaving no spot untouched-as if he were sanitizing them. But then, his movements turned abruptly ferocious. He forced his way into her mouth without hesitation, claiming it with wild abandon. He gave her no chance to catch her breath, pressing relentlessly against her mouth and biting down on her tongue. Soon, she began to feel dizzy from the lack of air; her body went limp like a sponge, and she slumped wearily against him. Her eyes-liquid and luminous-were clouded with a misty haze, looking as though they had just been washed in water; their depths were a bottomless, glistening black.

He kept his gaze fixed on her, locked onto those bewitching eyes. Watching her lost in the deep kiss-her consciousness drifting, utterly carried away-he felt a surge of heat. He longed to tear off her clothes, strip her bare, and plunge right into her, making those dark eyes well up with tears of passion.

She was simply too enchanting!

He cursed under his breath and withdrew from her mouth. Her long, narrow eyes were

half-closed, and her face was flushed a rosy pink from the lack of oxygen; her lips, parted by his intrusion, remained slightly open, unable to close just yet. A trickle of moisture slid down the corner of her mouth, leaving a suggestive, silvery trail.

She remained dazed, leaning against him motionless, looking for all the world like someone who had been kissed out of her wits.

He found the sight amusing. Lowering his head, he gently licked away the traces of their intimacy from the corner of her mouth, then planted a final kiss on her tender, cherry-red lips.

Only then did she snap back to reality. She fluttered her thick, comb-like eyelashes, finally seeing him clearly-and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Her face flushed red again, this time from embarrassment. Turning slightly, she shyly buried her head between his thighs, not daring to look at him.

What just happened?! It was so humiliating! She felt as though she had actually swooned!

She couldn't bear to look at him; she acted like an ostrich, as if burying her head between his legs-where she couldn't see him-meant she could pretend nothing had

happened at all.

"Heh heh..."

He chuckled. She seemed like a giant toy-delightfully funny and impossible not to cherish. Oh well, he'd let her off the hook; she looked so pitifully flustered.

The subordinate driving the car ahead was surprised; it had been a long time since he'd heard his boss laugh so genuinely. It seems this Miss Serra is a bit different!