Emily
The rain falls in fine, cold drops on the asphalt, creating a dull melody that mingles with the distant rumble of the city. New York never sleeps, even at such a late hour. The streetlights create a murky ambiance, reflecting moving shadows on the building facades. I watch the scene from the passenger seat of a black sedan with tinted windows, my heart beating at a measured pace, but my mind in a frenzy.
— Are you sure about this? — asks Agent Ross, his piercing gaze lingering on my profile.
— I've never been more sure of anything.
My hands, though calm, betray a slight tension as I adjust the collar of my black dress. It's too short, too tight. A part of me hates the image I project, but I know that in the world I am about to infiltrate, appearance is a weapon. My body, my face, my charm… all of it will become a tool, a distraction, a trap carefully set for the wrong person.
Victorio Valenti.
The name resonates in my mind like a curse. Heir to the Valenti cartel, he controls a large part of the drug and arms trafficking in New York. Untouchable. Dangerous. The FBI has been tracking him for years without ever managing to put handcuffs on him. I am their last card. Their final trump.
I step out of the car, the click of my heels on the asphalt lost in the distant noise of traffic. The night air is thick with tension, with that dull electricity typical of dangerous environments. A massive bouncer stops me at the club entrance. He has the build of a wrestler, cold eyes, and a tribal tattoo running along his neck.
— Name? — he asks in a gravelly voice.
— Emily Carter. Victorio is expecting me.
He scrutinizes me for a moment, then steps back and opens the door. Inside, the decor changes radically. The music is loud, the rhythm heavy and sensual. Bodies intertwine on the dance floor, female silhouettes clad in shimmering dresses surrendering under the gaze of predators in Italian suits.
My gaze sweeps the room until I see him.
Victorio Valenti.
He sits in a black leather chair, one leg casually crossed over the other. He wears a dark, perfectly tailored suit that hugs the contours of his muscular body. His brown hair is slicked back, revealing a face with brutally handsome features: a chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, a sculptural mouth. But it's his gaze that strikes me. Eyes of metallic gray, cold as the blade of a knife.
He is staring at me.
His gaze penetrates me, judges me, dissects me. A spark of amusement dances in his pupils, but I know it masks something darker. I take a breath and walk toward him, my heels echoing on the marble floor.
A man to his right rises to block my way. Victorio raises a nonchalant hand.
— Let her pass.
I stop in front of him. He doesn't speak, merely observes me, his gaze sliding from my face to the curve of my hips. My body reacts instinctively, a dull warmth rising in the pit of my stomach.
He extends a hand toward me.
— Emily.
My hand slips into his. He gently pulls me, forcing me to sit on the couch next to him. His proximity unsettles me. The scent of his cologne — a woody blend with a hint of leather — seeps into my nostrils.
— What is a woman like you doing here? — he asks in a low, grave voice, almost a whisper.
— I heard you were the man to know.
A sly smile stretches across his lips.
— It's true. But you're not the type of woman to frequent places like this.
I frown slightly.
— What makes you say that?
— Your eyes. They're too intelligent. Too clear. Women who come here aren't looking for conversation.
He leans back against the backrest, his arm stretching along the couch behind my shoulders. A wave of heat rises within me. His body is close, his presence overwhelming.
— What did you come looking for, Emily? — he murmurs, leaning slightly toward me.
— You.
A shadow of darkness crosses his gaze.
— Do you know who I am?
— Victorio Valenti. The king of New York.
He flashes a predatory smile.
— And you're not afraid?
— I'm a big girl.
His hand brushes my cheek. My breath catches.
— Big girls should know when to steer clear of danger.
I hold his gaze without flinching.
— Maybe I like danger.
His smile widens.
— Then stay with me tonight.
His tone is both an invitation and a command. My heart races, but I maintain control.
— I'm all yours.
He leans in, his lips grazing my temple.
— Then show me how far you're willing to go.
He stands, extending his hand to me. I hesitate for a second, then my fingers slip into his palm. He pulls me close, his chest brushing against my breasts. His scent, his warmth, the tension between us… everything is electrifying. He leads me toward a door at the back of the club, down a dark staircase that descends into a private area.
The door slams shut behind us. He pins me against the wall, one hand around my waist, the other sliding up my thigh.
— You're playing with fire, Emily.
I glide my hands along his muscular chest, feeling the hardness of his abs beneath the fine fabric of his shirt.
— Then burn me.
A low growl rises in his throat. His lips crash onto mine with controlled brutality. His tongue invades my mouth, demanding, possessive. My body responds immediately, warmth spreading through my lower abdomen.
I am lost in this wild kiss, in this raw passion. His hands slip under my dress, ascending along my bare thighs. He presses his body against mine, a moan escaping my lips.
He abruptly stops the kiss, his forehead pressed against mine.
— You don't know what you're doing, Emily.
— Yes, I do.
He smiles, darkly.
— Then prepare to never look back.
And he kisses me again, with an intensity that consumes me entirely.