Forceful pleasures: Subjected to the Don
I sat to his right, my black dress revealing a bit of my cleavage, trying to look like I belonged in the mafia world, but I knew too well it wasn’t for me.
The restaurant’s back room was dimly lit, candles flickering on heavy silver candelabras, and plates of risotto and osso buco arrived in perfect timing.
Then the door opened.
A man stepped in — tall but not as tall as Giovanni, leaner, dressed in charcoal grey with a blood-red pocket square.
He carried his hair slicked back, had sharp cheekbones, and wore a smile that looked practised and dangerous.
The room went still for half a second.
Bab Populer