THE DEVIL’S SHOWPIECE

I didn’t know where we were going until the car stopped in front of a velvet-rope nightclub.

The kind of place where women in designer dresses stood in line behind men with cold eyes and heavy wallets. Paparazzi flashed cameras like fireworks. The doormen looked like ex-military.

Luciano stepped out first.

He didn’t glance back to check if I followed.

He didn’t have to.

The moment I stepped out behind him, the flashbulbs turned on me like I was royalty. Or a scandal.

I clutched my borrowed clutch tighter.

The dress I wore was blood red, satin, and slit up to the thigh — a weapon disguised as fashion.

“Why are we here?” I hissed, trying to keep up as he led us past the line and straight through the doors.

He didn’t answer.

Inside, the music throbbed like a heartbeat. Men smoked cigars in glass booths. Women with cruel eyes whispered behind flutes of champagne. And every single one of them looked when they saw me on his arm.

I suddenly realized what I was.

A symbol.

A message.

A trophy.

Luciano didn’t stop until we reached a corner booth guarded by two men with earpieces.

A man was already sitting there.

Tall. Polished. With skin like honey and a scar running down his jaw like a signature.

He smiled when he saw me.

Not a warm smile.

A dangerous one.

“I thought you didn’t take pets, De Luca,” the man said in a voice too soft to be friendly.

Luciano’s arm slid around my waist possessively.

“This one’s not for sale, Marzio.”

Marzio.

I’d heard that name before.

He ran the Southern ports. Imports. Weapons. Rumors said he once stabbed a man with a wine glass and finished his drink after.

His eyes raked over me, slow and deliberate.

“I didn’t ask if she was for sale,” he said. “Just wondering what kind of leash you’re using these days.”

Luciano’s jaw tightened, but he smiled like he was amused.

“My kind of leash doesn’t break.”

I suddenly felt like I was standing in the middle of two lions, both circling the same prey.

Me.

Marzio leaned forward, locking eyes with me.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I glanced at Luciano, unsure.

He didn’t say a word.

He wanted me to speak.

I straightened my shoulders.

“Aria,” I said. “Not sweetheart.”

Marzio’s grin widened. “Pretty and mouthy. I like that.”

Luciano’s hand flexed at my hip.

Possessive.

Hard.

I wasn’t sure if it thrilled me or terrified me.

Probably both.

The night dragged on.

The men talked business in veiled threats and elegant insults. I sipped sparkling water and tried not to squirm under Marzio’s stares.

Then it happened.

Luciano excused himself for a call.

Marzio wasted no time.

“Does he hit you?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You look like someone waiting to run.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I was.

He slid a card across the table.

“If you ever want to disappear, I’m good at making people disappear.”

I stared at the card.

No name. Just a number.

“I’m not yours to save,” I whispered.

He smirked. “No, you’re his to break.”

Luciano returned seconds later, and the look in his eyes told me he knew something had happened.

We didn’t stay long after that.

In the car, silence stretched between us.

Until he spoke.

“Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“Did he give you something?”

I hesitated.

Luciano’s eyes flashed.

“Aria.”

I pulled the card from my clutch and handed it over.

He took it. Tore it in half without looking at it.

Then, quietly, he said, “You don’t take offers from men like him. Ever.”

“I didn’t ask for his card.”

“But you didn’t throw it away.”

I turned toward the window. “Why did you bring me tonight?”

Luciano was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, “To remind them you’re mine.”

“Am I?”

He looked at me like I’d slapped him.

“You were bought.”

I swallowed.

“But that’s not the same as being yours.”

His fingers brushed my thigh, slow and calculated.

“No,” he said darkly. “It’s not. But one day… it might be.”

Back at the penthouse, I didn’t wait for him to undress me or bark another order.

I marched straight to the guest bedroom and slammed the door.

If he thought I was going to melt just because he got jealous?

He didn’t know me at all.

But as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I realized something worse.

I wanted him to get jealous.

I wanted him to burn.

And I didn’t know what that made me anymore.