Chapter 7

Lorenzo's POV

Her pussy clenched around my finger.

I watched her face—the flush spreading down her throat, the way her teeth sank into that plump lower lip, the tears clinging to those ridiculously long lashes. She was trembling. Not from fear.

From need.

Interesting.

I hadn't expected this. Hadn't expected her.

When I'd arrived at Crimson Thorn tonight, this wasn't the evening I'd planned.

The drive over had been routine. My driver, Marco, navigating the streets with the practiced ease of someone who'd been doing this for fifteen years.

I'd almost missed her.

A flash of movement near the club's entrance—a woman stumbling out of a black car, her dress torn, her hair wild.

I didn't slow down. Didn't ask Marco to stop.

Girls ended up at Crimson Thorn all the time. Lost souls looking for thrills. Desperate women seeking powerful men. Gifts delivered by those hoping to curry favor. I'd seen every variety, and I'd learned long ago not to care about any of them.

Whatever her story was, it wasn't my problem.

"Don," Marco said, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. "About Miss Vivienne—"

My attention sharpened. "What about her?"

"She's been... different lately. Skipping the car service after school. Making excuses to go out."

I processed this information in silence.

Vivienne. My ward. The daughter of the man who'd died saving my life.

Twelve years ago, Marcello Castellano had thrown himself between me and a blade meant for my heart. He'd bled out in my arms, choking on his last words. Find my daughter. The girl with the ruby bracelet. Protect her.

I'd gone to Santa Maria Orphanage myself. Found a frightened eight-year-old clutching a platinum bracelet set with rubies. Brought her home. Raised her as my own.

She'd been sweet then. Quiet. Grateful.

Now she was twenty, her personality had shifted—sharper, colder, nothing like Marcello's warm steadiness. I'd attributed it to adolescence, to the pressures of growing up in my world. But lately...

"She has a boyfriend," Marco continued. "That's my guess. The way she smiles at her phone sometimes—"

"Men are worthless." My voice came out flat. "Find out who he is. I want a full background before she brings him anywhere near this family."

Marco nodded. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled. "You know, Don, for someone with your reputation, you're remarkably protective."

"My reputation?"

"The rumors." He met my eyes in the mirror, something like amusement flickering there. "The things they say you do to women at the club. You've never once corrected them."

I didn't answer.

The truth was simple: I didn't indulge. Not the way the rumors suggested. The image of Lorenzo Vitale—the monster who bent women to his will, who used and discarded them without mercy—was useful. It kept enemies afraid. Kept allies in line. Kept everyone exactly where I needed them.

The reality? I hadn't touched a woman in over a year. Self-control was a discipline, and I'd mastered it long ago.

But I let them talk. Let them imagine. Fear was a more reliable currency than truth.

-

I withdrew my finger from between her thighs.

She whimpered at the loss, her hips lifting off the bed, chasing sensation I'd denied her. The restraints held her in place—wrists bound above her head, ankles spread wide, her ruined dress bunched around her waist like a surrender flag.

She was exquisite. I couldn't deny it.

Young. Far too young for me. The age gap should have killed any attraction before it sparked. And yet—

Those eyes.

When she'd looked up at me in the club, terrified and desperate, something had jolted through my chest. Recognition, almost.

Marcello's eyes had been amber.

I pushed the thought aside. Coincidence. Nothing more.

"Please," she whispered. Her voice was wrecked. Hoarse from the tears she'd cried, the screams I'd pulled from her with the crop. "Please, I'll do anything—"

"You keep saying that." I circled the bed, studying her from every angle. "Do you even know what anything means?"

She shook her head. Honest, at least.

"You threw yourself at me tonight." I stopped at the foot of the bed, watching her squirm. "A complete stranger. A man who just killed someone in front of you. Either you're incredibly stupid, or incredibly clever."

Her chin lifted despite her vulnerable position. "I'm not stupid."

No. She wasn't.

That was the thing that had caught my attention. When those cameras had appeared, when any other woman would have frozen or screamed, she'd calculated. She'd known that the media wouldn't dare photograph me. That my reputation made me untouchable.

So she'd made herself untouchable too.

Smart girl.

I circled the bed, studying her from every angle. She bit her lip harder. Shy. Embarrassed. Her innocence was painfully obvious. She couldn't meet my eyes.

"Please—"

"Please what? Use your words, little one. You don't know what you want?" I stopped at the foot of the bed, watching her squirm. "Or you're too ashamed to say it?"

A flush crept down her chest. Her nipples strained against the ruined fabric of her dress, hard peaks begging to be touched.

"Both," she admitted in a whisper.

Honest. I liked that.

I retrieved a length of black silk from the cabinet. Her eyes widened as I approached.

"What—"

"Shh." I pressed a finger to her lips. "You said you'd be obedient. Did you lie to me?"

She shook her head frantically.

"Good girl."

I tied the silk over her eyes. Plunged her into darkness.

Her breath came faster now. Sharper. Without sight, every other sense heightened.

I let the silence stretch. Let her anticipation build.

Then I dragged a single fingernail down her stomach.

She gasped. Her muscles contracted beneath my touch, her back arching off the bed.

"You're so responsive." I traced lazy patterns across her trembling flesh. "Has anyone ever touched you like this before?

"N-no."

"No one's ever made you feel this way? This desperate? This wet?"

"No." Her voice cracked. "Never."

Virgin. The word pulsed through me with unexpected heat.

I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't want her. She was too young, too innocent, too far removed from the darkness that defined my world.

But she'd thrown herself at me. Begged for my protection. Offered me anything.

My hand slid between her thighs. She was soaked—arousal coating her inner thighs, dripping onto the sheets beneath her. I gathered the wetness on my fingers, spread it over her swollen clit.

She cried out. Her hips bucked against my hand.

"Rule number one." I rubbed slow circles, watching her fall apart. "You do not come without my permission. Understand?"

"Y-yes—"

"Yes, what?"

"Yes... sir?"

"Good girl." I increased the pressure, my thumb pressing firmly against that sensitive bundle of nerves. "Now hold it."

Her moans filled the room. I could see her fighting—her thighs trembling, her hands fisting in the restraints, her whole body wound tight as a bowstring.

"Please—" she gasped. "I can't—it's too much—"

"You can. You will." I didn't relent. "Not until I say so."

Her back arched. Sweat glistened on her skin. She was so close, her pussy clenching around nothing, desperate for release.

"Hold it," I commanded.

"I'm trying—I can't—please, I need—"

And then she broke.

Her orgasm crashed through her without warning. Her whole body convulsed, a scream tearing from her throat as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through her.

I pulled my hand away.

Waited.

When the tremors finally subsided, she lay there panting, chest heaving, tears streaming from beneath the blindfold.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I couldn't stop it—"

I said nothing.

The silence stretched. I watched her squirm, watched the realization dawn—the way her breath caught, the way her body tensed with something other than pleasure.

Fear.

"Did I give you permission?" My voice was ice.

"No." Barely audible. "I'm sorry—"

"Sorry doesn't undo disobedience. You said you'd be a good girl. You said you'd be obedient. And the very first rule I gave you—the only rule—you broke it."

She trembled beneath me.

"What happens to girls who don't listen, little one?"

"I don't—"

"They get punished."