Page 20 of I Would Die For You

Fuck if I care.

Sandro, the bouncer, stops me with a nod and a grunt at the entrance.

“Stefano,” he greets. “Careful in there, man.”

He’s not one for words, usually, so I wonder what this means. Am I on Don Giacomo’s radar or something? What’s going on?

My confusion is compounded when I cross paths with Dino, the Don’s bodyguard, inside. He also nods at me, face grave.

“We need to talk, Stefano.” Then he glances over his shoulder. “Not now. Later.”

I’m curious what he’s getting at, but the way he looked back has me also peering to the side to see what caught his attention since he’d seemed on a mission to speak to me. And that’s when I notice it—noticeher.

Kaya is dressed all in black today. The miniskirt is riding high on her limber thighs, the corset hugging her midsection to push her breasts up. Her hair in that tight updo again, her pillowy lips pursed even tighter. I’d even say it’s disapproval or disdain on her face. Had she been wearing knee-high boots instead of strappy stilettos, she’d totally have brought to mind a sexy dominatrix. Ooh, how I’d love to let her discipline me and my cock.

My gaze zeroes in on her mouth. I’ve yet to hear her speak really filthy talk to me, but I can totally picture those plush lips sinking down my cock as she mouth fucks me. I was surprised the first time she smiled—really smiled—because it showed me how wide her pillowy lips stretched when she let herself relax into her most natural smile. All that pursing she does makes them appear way harder. And that somewhat makes me hornier for her, because I’m the only one who gets to see that mouth in all its glory, and gets to experience it on my body in all ways possible.

But the way she’s tightened her lips today sends a little sliver of cold down my spine. Her whole body is tense, too, and even across the room, I can feel the recrimination in her eyes.

What’s going on? This draws me to her like a moth to a flame, and up close, the anger radiating from her is almost palpable as it hits me like a wave aiming to drown me under and possibly keep my head down so I’ll slowly choke.

“Kaya,” I say with a frown.

“Stefano,” she bites out.

I love the way she says my name. As an American, she always adds an extra f on the second syllable, drawing it out whereas Italians cut the name in two at this letter.

Tonight, however, that extra letter feels like a sharp slap landing on my cheek.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She shrugs, and is it possible, purses her mouth even tighter. “You tell me.”

It’s rhetorical, I can sense it, and also another slap. While I’m not averse to a woman actually slapping me in the heat of roaring passion to get me to play rougher with her, we’re so not in this kind of scene here.

“Kaya,” I warn.

She has the gall to shrug, then she’s turning away from me and strolling off. My hand shoots out to grab her wrist. When she tries to twist out of my hold, my blood catches fire. I’ll never force a woman to do anything, but right now, she owes me an explanation. And this can’t and won’t happen in the middle of the lounge floor with everyone’s eyes on us.

My eyes narrow on her, and she has the presence of mind to stop fighting. Good. I always knew she wasn’t an idiot. But whatever the fuck is going on here, I’m going to find out.

With my hand wrapped around her wrist, I pull her unceremoniously in my wake as I start toward the smallest of the private rooms at the back of the club. The door opens without a hitch, which means it’s unoccupied. Good. We need the space to get whatever the hell is happening right now out of our system, to take out that stick she’s got shoved up her ass.

She turns to me once we’re inside.

“What is it you require tonight?”

Her question slams into me like a fist to the gut. The only time a woman asks this is when she has a john who’s just paid for her services in front of her.

“Che cosa?”

She lifts her chin, braces her body tight, stands tall as she stares me down.

Or at least tries to. No one treats me this way, not because I’m some hotshot or whatever, but my own self-respect won’t allow it.

Something goes off in my head, like the deflagration of a bomb, its shock wave wiping away every shred of decency inside me.

“You want me to treat you like a whore?” I ask softly.

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