"What the fuck am I doing?"
The red dress clung to every curve like a second skin—backless, with a neckline that plunged dangerously low between my breasts. The slit up the side revealed nearly my entire right leg when I moved. In the hotel mirror, I looked like sin incarnate.
Exactly what Dominic had requested.
I'd chosen this dress carefully—a weapon designed to make men weak. Tonight was about infiltrating deeper, getting closer to Dominic's inner circle, gathering intelligence. Not about the way my skin still tingled from his touch yesterday.
My phone buzzed. Reza again.
*Three of tonight's guests are Russian mob connections. High stakes meeting. Castellano's expanding east.*
I frowned. *What's he trading?*
*Unknown. Watch for exchanges. Document anything suspicious.*
Tonight was more than a performance. It was reconnaissance.
I tucked a miniature recording device into my clutch. The blade went into its usual spot against my thigh, now becoming a ritual that grounded me. Valentina preparing to become Shade.
But the line between them was blurring. When I'd returned to my hotel room last night, I'd dreamed of green eyes and commanding hands. I'd woken up with my fingers between my legs, his name on my lips.
I'd come with a cry of frustration and shame.
The dress rustled as I moved, the material cool against my bare skin. No underwear again—partly for the clean lines of the dress, partly because of how wet I kept getting around him. Practical reasons, I told myself. Nothing to do with how I imagined his reaction if he discovered it.
The cab dropped me off directly at Purgatory's entrance this time. The bouncer nodded in immediate recognition and stepped aside.
"They're waiting upstairs."
My heart pounded harder with each step toward the private elevator. This wasn't just about Dominic anymore. Five other men would be watching me tonight. Five potential threats. Five potential sources of information.
The elevator doors opened into a different space than Dominic's office—a luxurious private lounge with dim lighting, plush seating arranged in a semicircle around a small stage, and a fully stocked bar along one wall. The city glittered beyond floor-to-ceiling windows.
Five men turned as I entered. Dominic wasn't among them.
"Gentlemen," I said, my accent slightly thicker than usual. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."
One man—older, with silver hair and cold eyes—smiled thinly. "Worth the wait, I think."
I recognized him from my research. Viktor Petrov. Russian mob. Responsible for at least two dozen murders and countless trafficking operations.
The others were a mix—two more Russians, younger but with that same dead-eyed stare, and two Italians who were clearly local muscle.
"Where's Mr. Castellano?" I asked, maintaining Shade's confident demeanor despite the alarm bells ringing in my head.
"He'll join us shortly," Petrov said, his accent thick. "Please, prepare. We're eager to see what fascinated him so."
A trap? Or just business? Without Dominic present, I felt vulnerable in a way I hadn't anticipated.
I moved to the sound system, connecting my phone. "Any requests?"
"Surprise us," one of the younger Russians said, his eyes never leaving my body.
I selected a track—something sultry with a heavy bass line—and moved to the small stage. As the music began, I let myself transform, pushing my worries aside. Shade didn't worry. Shade commanded.
I began to dance, my movements deliberate and hypnotic. I used the pole minimally, focusing instead on the fluidity of my body, the story I was telling with each motion. The red dress caught the light, creating the illusion that I was draped in blood.
Their eyes followed my every move. I felt their desire like a physical thing, pressing against my skin. But unlike with Dominic, it left me cold.
Three minutes into my performance, the elevator doors opened.
Dominic stepped in, and the atmosphere in the room instantly changed. The air charged with tension as his eyes found me on the stage. He wore another impeccable suit—charcoal gray this time, with a blood-red tie that matched my dress exactly.
His gaze raked over me, possessive and hungry, before turning to his guests with a perfectly composed business smile.
"Gentlemen. I see you're enjoying our entertainment."
I continued dancing, but now my movements were for him alone. His eyes returned to me again and again as he exchanged greetings, took a seat slightly apart from the others.
"She's exquisite," Petrov commented to Dominic, eyes still on me. "Available for private sessions?"
Something dangerous flashed across Dominic's face before his expression smoothed. "Ms. Shade is exclusive to Purgatory. For viewing only."
"A shame," Petrov sighed. "I'd pay handsomely."
"Some things aren't for sale," Dominic replied, his tone light but his eyes hard.
I finished my performance with a series of moves that showcased flexibility and control, ending on my knees, head thrown back, throat exposed—but this time with my eyes locked directly on Dominic.
Silence fell as the music ended. Then applause, appreciative murmurs.
"Magnificent," Petrov said, raising his glass. "Absolutely worth the trip."
I stepped off the stage, moving to the bar to retrieve a bottle of water. My skin prickled as I felt someone approach from behind.
"Not interrupting, am I?"
Dominic's voice was low, for my ears only. He stood close enough that I could feel the heat from his body, smell his cologne—that same subtle, expensive scent that had haunted my dreams.
"Not at all," I replied, turning to face him. "Your guests seem pleased."
"They're not the only ones." His eyes dropped to my lips, then lower, taking in the dress with obvious appreciation. "Red suits you."
"You chose it."
"I have excellent taste." His hand moved to my lower back, fingertips grazing my bare skin. A seemingly casual touch that sent electricity racing up my spine. "Come. They're waiting."
He guided me toward the seating area, his hand never leaving my back. The touch was proprietary, announcing to everyone exactly who I belonged to.
I should have been repulsed. Instead, my treacherous body leaned into it.
"Gentlemen," Dominic said as we approached, "allow me to properly introduce our performer. This is Shade."
Five pairs of eyes assessed me with varying degrees of hunger.
"Join us for a drink," Petrov suggested, patting the space beside him.
Before I could respond, Dominic's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on my back. "I'm afraid Ms. Shade has another performance scheduled. But please, enjoy the rest of your evening. We'll reconvene tomorrow to finalize our arrangement."
Business dismissed so easily. Whatever they'd been discussing would continue tomorrow. Without me present.
Dominic guided me toward the elevator, hand still at my back. As the doors closed behind us, he pressed a different button than I expected—not the main floor, but up.
"Where are we going?" I asked, suddenly aware of how alone we were.
"My private residence." His eyes met mine in the mirrored wall of the elevator. "Unless you object?"
I should have. Valentina should have. But Shade—Shade was curious.
"Why?"
"Because I want to speak with you somewhere truly private." His gaze was intense. "And because you look like you could use a real drink after dealing with those sharks."
The elevator opened directly into a stunning penthouse apartment—modernist design softened with unexpected touches of warmth. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of Chicago at night, the city spread out below like a carpet of stars.
Dominic moved to a bar area, retrieving two glasses. "Whiskey again? Or something else?"
"Whiskey is fine."
I wandered to the windows, taking in the view while secretly assessing the space. Points of entry and exit. Security systems. Potential weapons.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, coming to stand beside me. He handed me a glass, our fingers brushing in the exchange.
"Yes," I agreed, taking a sip. The whiskey was different from yesterday—smoother, more expensive. "You like being above it all."
"I like perspective." He moved to stand behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck. "From up here, everything looks small. Manageable."
"Is that why you brought me here? To manage me?"
He laughed softly. "No one could manage you, Shade. That's what makes you interesting."
I turned to face him, finding him closer than I'd expected. "What do you really want from me, Dominic?"
His eyes darkened at the sound of his name on my lips. "The truth would be a start."
My heart stuttered. "What truth?"
"Who you're running from." He took a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving mine. "The reason you flinch when doors open unexpectedly. Why you always position yourself with sight lines to every exit."
Fuck. He'd been watching me more closely than I'd realized.
"Occupational hazard," I deflected. "Dancers in certain establishments learn to be cautious."
"Mmm." He didn't believe me. "And the scar on your left shoulder blade? The one you try to hide? Another occupational hazard?"
My breath caught. He'd seen it during my performance—a thin, jagged line from a knife wound years ago. Training accident with Reza.
"We all have scars," I replied, keeping my voice steady.
"Yes," he agreed, setting down his glass. "We do."
Without warning, he turned and unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off his right shoulder to reveal a mass of scar tissue just below his collarbone.
"Bullet," he explained. "Three years ago. Rival family decided I'd lived long enough."
The scar was brutal, puckered, evidence of a wound that should have been fatal. I found myself reaching out before I could stop myself, fingers tracing the damaged tissue.
His muscles tensed under my touch, but he didn't pull away.
"You survived," I murmured.
"Always do." His eyes held mine, something vulnerable beneath the confidence. "Some scars remind us we're still alive."
My fingers lingered on his skin, feeling his heartbeat beneath my palm. This close, I could see flecks of gold in his green eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw, the small scar above his eyebrow I'd noticed before.
The man who killed my father. The man who should have been nothing but a target.
He reached up, capturing my hand against his chest. "Your turn."
"My turn?"
"Show me your scar."
I should have refused. Should have maintained distance. Instead, I found myself turning, presenting my back to him. His fingers brushed my hair aside, then traced the thin line on my shoulder blade through the opening of my dress.
"Knife?" he asked, his touch whisper-light.
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Someone I trusted." Not entirely a lie.
His fingers continued their exploration, tracing the line of my spine down to where the dress dipped low against my tailbone. My skin erupted in goosebumps.
"Cold?" he asked, his voice rougher than before.
"No."
His hand flattened against my lower back, warm and possessive. I felt him step closer, the heat of his body all along my back. His breath stirred the hair near my ear.
"What are you so afraid of, Shade?"
The question hung between us, loaded with meaning.
"I'm not afraid of anything," I lied.
His other hand came up to rest at my waist, holding me without restraint. I could have stepped away at any moment. I didn't.
"Another lie." His lips brushed the shell of my ear. "You're afraid of how much you want this."
I closed my eyes, fighting for control as desire pooled hot and insistent between my legs. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of chemistry." His hand at my waist slid up, stopping just below my breast. "I'm sure of the way your pulse races when I touch you." His fingers moved to my throat, feeling my hammering heartbeat. "Like now."
"Physical reactions," I managed. "They don't mean anything."
"Don't they?" He turned me slowly to face him, his hands gentle but insistent. "Then tell me to stop."
I should have. God knows I should have.
Instead, I looked up into his eyes and whispered, "No."
Something fierce and hungry flashed in his gaze. His hand moved to cup my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip. "Tell me what you want, Shade."
My breath came faster, shallower. "I don't know."
"Liar," he murmured, but there was no heat in the accusation. "You know exactly what you want. You're just afraid to admit it."
His face was inches from mine now, his breath mingling with my own. One hand still cupped my face; the other rested at my waist, thumb tracing slow circles against the fabric of my dress.
"If you want me to kiss you," he said, voice dropping to a whisper, "ask me."
Pride warred with desire. Valentina warred with Shade. The mission warred with the moment.
"I—"
A phone rang, shattering the tension. Dominic closed his eyes briefly, jaw tightening in frustration before he pulled back, retrieving his phone from his pocket.
"Castellano," he answered, his voice instantly transformed—cold, professional. His eyes never left mine as he listened. "When?... How many?... Secure the location. I'm on my way."
He ended the call, expression grim.
"Problem?" I asked, equal parts relieved and disappointed at the interruption.
"Business," he replied vaguely. "I need to go."
He moved away, retrieving his shirt and redressing with efficient movements. I watched the scar disappear beneath expensive fabric, felt the moment slipping away.
"My car will take you wherever you need to go," he said, buttoning his cuffs. "We'll continue this conversation another time."
"Will we?"
He paused, looking at me with that same intense focus. "Count on it."
He crossed to me in three quick strides, and before I could react, his hand slid into my hair, gripping firmly at the nape of my neck. Not painful, but commanding.
"Think about what you want, Shade," he said, his voice low and rough. "Because next time, I won't stop."
Then he released me and was gone, leaving me alone in his penthouse with trembling legs and a pulse that wouldn't slow.
I sank onto a nearby couch, trying to regain my composure. My phone buzzed in my clutch.
Reza: *Status?*
What could I say? That I'd almost begged the man who killed my father to kiss me? That my body ached for his touch? That I was failing spectacularly at my mission because I couldn't control my own desire?
*Still gathering intel,* I typed back. *Need more time.*
I stared out at the city lights, Dominic's words echoing in my head.
"Next time, I won't stop."
The worst part wasn't that he'd said it.
The worst part was how desperately I hoped he meant it.