CHAPTER THREE

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the dining room, catching on silverware so polished I could see my reflection. The long mahogany table was already set with more food than I’d seen in one place outside of a wedding.

Fresh bread, fruit, eggs, smoked meats. It should have smelled comforting. Instead, my stomach twisted with unease.

Amaya sat across from me, already stabbing at her food like it had personally offended her. Don Mario sat at the head of the table, composed as ever, reading a paper with one hand, a glass of dark coffee in the other.

And then Jenny walked in.

She didn’t knock, didn’t greet anyone, just glided into the room in a silk robe that left very little to the imagination, her blonde hair gleaming like she had stepped straight out of a magazine cover.

“Morning, darling,” she purred, leaning down to press a kiss against Don Mario’s cheek, lingering longer than necessary.

Amaya’s fork clattered against her plate.

“Jenny,” she said flatly.

Jenny smirked, sliding gracefully into the chair beside Mario. “Sweetheart. You look… well. Did you finally learn how to brush your hair properly?”

Amaya’s eyes narrowed. “Funny. I was just wondering if you learned how to cover up your wrinkles yet.”

I froze mid-sip of orange juice, my eyes darting between them.

Mario didn’t look up from his paper, though I caught the twitch of a smile on his lips. Jenny, however, gave a low laugh, unfazed.

“Adorable. You know, Mario, I keep telling you Amaya inherited your temper. Such a shame she didn’t inherit your charm.”

That made Amaya slam her knife down. “At least I don’t throw myself at men twice my age to stay relevant.”

The air at the table went sharp, thick with the kind of tension that made it hard to breathe.

I expected Mario to intervene, to silence them both. But instead, he simply folded his paper, set it aside, and turned his gaze to me.

It was subtle, too subtle for anyone else to notice. His hand brushed along the stem of his glass, slow, deliberate. His eyes locked with mine for a fraction too long before flicking downward, toward the untouched plate in front of me, as though he were daring me to eat, to respond, to acknowledge him.

The message was wordless, yet clear.

I see you.

I dropped my gaze immediately, shoving a piece of bread into my mouth just to break the connection. My hands trembled under the table.

Jenny laughed again, pulling attention back to herself, and Amaya muttered something venomous in return. The two of them battled on, but I barely heard.

All I could think about was the weight of Mario’s gaze, and the terrifying realization that, out of everyone at that table, his attention was on me.

Breakfast ended in tense silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of silverware and Jenny’s smug little remarks. Amaya stormed off afterward, muttering about “unfinished business” with one of her father’s managers. Jenny slinked away toward Mario’s office, clearly satisfied with the chaos she’d caused.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t get out fast enough.

“Do you need a car?” Amaya asked distractedly, already halfway down the hall.

I nodded, and within minutes, one of Mario’s sleek black sedans pulled around. A driver, tall, expressionless, dressed in the standard black suit, opened the door for me.

The ride started in silence, the hum of the engine soothing after the morning’s storm. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, staring out at the endless stretch of driveway.

Halfway down the road, the driver cleared his throat.

“Miss Selene,” he said, his voice even, professional.

I blinked, straightening. “Yes?”

He kept his eyes on the road as he slid a small folded envelope onto the leather seat beside me. “This is from Don Mario.”

My heart lurched. “What?”

“Instructions,” the driver said simply.

I stared at the envelope as though it were a live grenade. My fingers hesitated before picking it up.

Inside was a single black card, embossed with gold letters. A private phone number. And beneath it, a note written in an elegant hand:

Hotel Bellagio, Suite 701. Midnight.

I swallowed hard, my pulse racing.

The driver said nothing more. He simply drove, face unreadable, as though delivering secret messages for the Don was as normal as breathing.

I tucked the card back into the envelope, clutching it in my lap till I got home.

The entire day, I told myself no.

I told myself Mario’s note was a mistake, a test, a trap, anything but what it really was: an invitation.

I stuffed it in the bottom of my bag, then in my drawer, then in the trash. Yet somehow, it found its way back to my hands each time.

Hotel Bellagio. Suite 701. Midnight.

By evening, I was pacing my small apartment, heart pounding like I was already there. I hated myself for even considering it. I wasn’t that kind of girl. I wasn’t stupid. I wasn’t reckless.

But the problem was, I couldn’t forget the way his eyes had lingered on me. The way the kitchen last night had felt as though the world had narrowed down to just him and me, the little gestures at breakfast.

By ten, I was still pacing. By eleven, I was still arguing with myself. By eleven-thirty… I was in a cab, cursing under my breath.

When the elevator doors opened onto the seventh floor, my stomach twisted. My footsteps echoed too loudly against the plush carpet. The number 701 glowed faintly at the end of the hall, like it had been waiting all night just for me.

I told myself I’d just knock, tell him this was a mistake, and leave. But when the door opened before I could even raise my hand, I froze.

Mario stood there.

Black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigarette burning in the other. He looked like he had all the time in the world, as though he knew I’d come eventually.

“You’re late,” he said simply, stepping aside.

I walked in because it felt impossible not to. The suite smelled of smoke, leather, and something dangerously male. I hugged my arms around myself, trying to appear calm.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I said firmly.

“You shouldn’t,” he agreed, setting his glass down. His eyes caught mine, holding them like chains. “And yet… you are.”

“I came to tell you not to play games with me,” I said quickly, defensive.

Mario tilted his head, studying me like I was the most fascinating puzzle he’d ever seen. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket and slid a thick white envelope across the glass table toward me.

“For you,” he said.

I frowned. “What is this?”

“Security,” he said softly. “Freedom. Enough money to take care of yourself and your family for a long time. I did some research on you, and it looks like you need this, your mom is sick and it could go a long way in helping her.”

My breath caught.

He leaned forward, his gaze scorching. “All I want in return… is you.”

I should have run. I should have walked straight back out that door.

But I stared down at the envelope in front of me. I didn’t even need to open it to know what it meant, a way for him to trap me in his world without saying it outright.

My fingers itched to touch it, to just peek inside, but instead, I pushed it back across the table toward him.

“I’m not for sale.” My voice came out steadier than I felt, sharp enough to cut through the heavy silence.

He leaned back, studying me with those dark eyes, like a predator amused by its prey’s attempt to fight back. The corner of his mouth curved, almost a smirk.

“Everyone has a price, Selene,” he murmured, his voice rich, dangerous. “Some take longer to discover theirs.”

A chill ran through me, but I refused to look away. “Then maybe mine doesn’t exist.”

“You think you can buy me?” I snapped, my voice rising. “You think waving money or power in my face makes me one of those women who throw themselves at you? I don’t need your freedom, or your protection, or whatever game this is. I can stand on my own.”

The words tumbled out hotter than I intended, fueled by the storm inside me. I hated him at that moment, hated the way he looked at me, as though he already owned me.

But instead of anger, he smiled. Slow. Infuriating. As if my rebellion only made me more interesting.

“Careful,” he said softly, leaning forward, his gaze burning into mine. “The more you talk like that, the more I want to break you… just to see if it’s true.”

My heart lurched, but I stood so fast my chair scraped against the floor. My hands trembled, though I curled them into fists to hide it.

“Find another toy, Mario,” I spat. “I’m not one of them.”

I turned before he could reply, my pulse hammering in my ears as I stormed toward the door. My fingers shook when I grabbed the handle, but I forced myself to look back once. Just once.

He was still sitting there, relaxed, sipping his drink, watching me with that maddening smirk, as if I had just given him exactly what he wanted.

“Run for now, Selene,” he called after me, his voice smooth, unbothered. “But you’ll come back.”

The words clung to me long after the door clicked shut behind me. I hated him. I hated myself even more, for the tiny, treacherous part of me that wasn’t sure he was wrong.

The cab ride home felt endless. I pressed my forehead against the glass, telling myself I was free. I had walked away.

But when I unlocked my apartment door and stepped inside, my blood ran cold.

The envelope.

It was sitting on my kitchen table.

Waiting for me.