The Wrong Suite

I never thought losing my virginity would feel like stepping into a trap.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood outside the penthouse door on the 42nd floor, the keycard warm and slightly slick in my palm. Enzo had texted me the room number twice—Suite 4201. Don’t be late, baby. Tonight’s the night. I’d spent weeks building up to this, convincing myself that giving myself to him would finally make everything feel real. Safe. Like I belonged somewhere after years of being passed around like an afterthought.

But something felt off the second the elevator doors closed behind me. The hallway was too quiet. Too dim. The kind of expensive silence that screamed money and secrets.

I swiped the card. The lock clicked green.

The suite was dark except for the low glow of city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. Champagne sat in a silver bucket on the side table, two glasses already poured, bubbles still rising. Soft music hummed from hidden speakers—something slow and sensual I didn’t recognize. My skin prickled. Enzo wasn’t big on romance. He was more about quick hands and faster exits.

“Enzo?” My voice came out softer than I intended. “You here?”

No answer.

I stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind me. The carpet swallowed my footsteps as I moved deeper into the living area. A jacket—black, tailored, expensive—draped over the back of a leather couch. Not Enzo’s usual leather biker style. This one carried the faint scent of cedar and something darker, like gun oil and cologne that cost more than my rent.

My pulse quickened. Wrong room? No, the number matched. Maybe he’d upgraded for the occasion. Maybe he was trying to impress me for once.

I picked up one of the champagne flutes, the cool glass steadying my nerves. Just a sip. Liquid courage. The bubbles danced on my tongue, crisp and expensive. Heat spread through my chest almost immediately.

That’s when I heard it—the low murmur of voices from the adjoining room. Male. Commanding. One voice cut through the others like a blade.

“…the shipment routes are compromised. If Enzo thinks he can run his own plays behind my back, he’s more stupid than I gave him credit for.”

My stomach dropped. That voice. Deep, controlled, laced with quiet fury. I’d only heard it a handful of times—at family dinners Enzo dragged me to, always from across the room. Dante Moretti. Enzo’s father. The Don.

I froze, glass halfway to my lips again. What the hell was he doing here? Enzo said this was our night. Private.

Footsteps approached. Heavy. Deliberate.

Before I could retreat, the door to the bedroom suite swung open. Light spilled out, silhouetting a tall, broad figure in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing corded muscle and a glimpse of dark ink. Dante Moretti stepped into the dim light, phone still pressed to his ear, his gaze sweeping the room like he owned every shadow in it.

His eyes locked on me.

Time slowed. Those eyes—storm-gray, sharp enough to cut—narrowed. Recognition flickered, followed by something darker. Surprise. Then heat. Raw, unfiltered, and gone so fast I might have imagined it.

I set the glass down too quickly. It wobbled. “Mr. Moretti—I’m sorry. I must have the wrong suite. Enzo told me—”

He ended the call with a curt flick of his thumb, sliding the phone into his pocket without breaking eye contact. “Essa Kane.”

The way he said my name sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. Not a question. A statement. Like he’d already weighed me, measured me, and decided something I wasn’t ready to hear.

“I’ll go,” I whispered, backing toward the door. My legs felt unsteady from the champagne, or maybe from the way he was looking at me. Like I was a problem he needed to solve. Or a prize he hadn’t expected to find tonight.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice was low, velvet over steel. He crossed the room in three strides, stopping just close enough that I caught that cedar-and-danger scent again. Up close, he was overwhelming—taller than Enzo by inches, broader, every inch of him radiating the kind of power that made men kneel and women forget their own names. Forty-six years old, and he wore it like a weapon. Silver threaded through his dark hair at the temples. A faint scar traced his jaw.

My breath hitched. This is wrong. He was my boyfriend’s father. Forbidden in every way that mattered. But my body didn’t seem to care. Heat pooled low in my belly, traitorous and sharp.

“Enzo sent you here?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. His gaze dropped to the half-empty champagne glass, then back to my face. Something possessive flashed in his eyes.

“I thought this was our room. For… tonight.” My cheeks burned. Admitting it out loud made me feel small. Exposed.

Dante’s jaw tightened. A muscle ticked there. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. Just watched me with that cold calculation I’d seen him use on rivals at those tense dinners. “My son has a habit of playing games he can’t win.”

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, and his expression hardened into something lethal. “Stay here. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”

He was already moving toward the exit, but he paused at my side. His fingers brushed my arm—barely a touch, yet it seared through the thin fabric of my dress like a brand. “You walked into the wrong suite tonight, Essa. But maybe it was the right one.”

Then he was gone, the door locking behind him with a final click.

I stood there, heart racing, skin still tingling where he’d touched me. What the hell just happened? Enzo was supposed to be here. This was supposed to be simple—my chance to feel wanted, to finally let go of the fear that everyone eventually left.

Instead, I was trapped in Dante Moretti’s penthouse, the taste of his champagne on my tongue and the memory of his eyes burning into me.

My phone vibrated in my clutch. A text from Enzo.

Change of plans. Something came up with the guys. Wait for me. Don’t leave.

Another message followed, this one from an unknown number.

They’re coming for you. Stay with him.

I stared at the screen, ice sliding down my spine. Who sent that? And why did every instinct scream that leaving now would be the last mistake I ever made?

The lock on the main door clicked again. Footsteps—multiple this time—approached from the hallway outside.

Dante’s voice carried through the wood, calm but edged with restrained fury. “She’s under my protection now. Touch her, and you die.”

My breath caught. Protection? From what?

The door swung open, and Dante stepped back inside, his shirt now slightly rumpled, a smear of something dark on his cuff that looked suspiciously like blood. His eyes found mine instantly, intense and unreadable.

“Essa,” he said, voice dropping lower. “We need to talk. Now.”

But before I could answer, a gunshot echoed from somewhere far below in the building—sharp, unmistakable.

Dante moved like lightning, pulling me against his chest, one strong arm banding around my waist as he shielded me with his body. His heartbeat was steady against my cheek. Mine was chaos.

“Too late,” he murmured into my hair, the words vibrating through me. “They know you’re here.”