Chapter 1

• Chapter 1: An Alluring Encounter
• The air inside Club Inferno is thick with sin. Smoke curls from expensive cigars, mingling with the scent of liquor and sweat. Neon lights flicker, casting sultry red and gold hues across writhing bodies tangled in pleasure. Laughter, moans, and the unmistakable sound of money exchanging hands create a sinful symphony. The place reeks of debauchery—gambling, sex, and unfiltered desire pulse through every shadowy corner, filling the air with an intoxicating blend of vice and temptation.
• Lena Moretti hesitates at the entrance, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a caged bird desperate for escape. She has spent the last hour debating whether to step inside, but something inside her craves danger. The suffocating control her dad has over her—the way every aspect of her life is dictated—leaves her starving for rebellion. Her life is a dull, predictable cycle, and she wants something thrilling, something reckless—even if it means getting burned.
• This is reckless.
• Her slender fingers curl into fists, nails digging into her palms as she takes a slow, measured breath. Then, with a final surge of defiance, she steps inside. The moment she does, regret coils around her like a vice.
• Her stomach churns at the sight of bodies twisting together in dark corners, women barely clothed grinding against men whose hands rove possessively. The club is drowning in sin, saturated with the kind of decadence she has only read about in whispered gossip. This is a world of indulgence, of power plays and illicit deals struck over top-shelf whiskey and stolen kisses. And yet, despite the pit forming in her stomach, she can't leave.
• Eyes burn into her the moment she enters. Hungry. Predatory. Dangerous.
• The weight of their stares makes her skin prickle with unease. Drunken men lick their lips, whispering among themselves, their gazes sweeping over her body like she is a meal served on a silver platter. She swallows hard, forcing herself to ignore the way her heart pounds.
• *Just one drink. Then I'll leave.*
• She forces her shoulders back, feigning confidence she doesn't feel, and strides toward the bar. The heels of her boots click against the polished floor, the sound swallowed by the thumping bass of the music. The bartender, a gruff man with tired eyes and a piercing gaze, barely spares her a glance before demanding her ID.
• "ID," he grunts, hand extended expectantly.
• Lena forces a smirk. "Do I look underage to you?"
• He arches a brow, unimpressed. "Yeah, you do. Now show me some identification or get out."
• Rolling her eyes, she reaches into her purse and hands him a fake ID, the age marked 21. He studies it, then her, clearly skeptical. A tense moment stretches between them before he lets out a grunt and slides a glass toward her.
• "One vodka soda," he mutters. "Don't make me regret this."
• Just as she reaches for it, a shadow looms over her.
• The stench of alcohol and sweat hits her before the man does. Slurred words slither against her ear as he leans in, his breath hot and sticky against her neck. "That's not a drink for a girl like you," he drawls, waving his own bottle. The liquid inside is dark, lethal. Something drugged.
• Lena's stomach twists. Her fingers curl tighter around her glass. "I'm not interested."
• "Come on, sweetheart," he persists, leering closer. "Pretty thing like you shouldn't drink alone."
• His fingers suddenly grip her arm, yanking her close. "I insist," he sneers, his other hand slipping too low, too bold.
• "Let go of me," she hisses, trying to twist away. "Now."
• Panic coils around her throat. She pushes at his chest, but he is stronger. His fingers dig into her hip, slide lower, cupping what he has no right to touch.
• *No one is stopping him.*
• Her breath turns ragged as she struggles, but he only tightens his grip. His touch is invasive, vile, his intentions written in the dark gleam of his eyes. He presses her against the bar, his grip unrelenting, his hands roaming—
• A voice cuts through the chaos. Deep. Commanding. Deadly.
• "Take your hands off her."
• The club falls silent.
• Every whisper, every movement ceases as if the air has been sucked from the room. The man holding Lena freezes, his body tensing. His fingers slip away as he turns, his face paling.
• Lena's shaky breath hitches as her gaze follows the reaction.
• And then she sees him.
• Luca DeLuca.
• Dark. Imposing. Dangerous.
• The air around him crackles with authority, dominance, and raw power. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his broad shoulders and chiseled frame radiate control. His piercing blue eyes burn with cold fury, his gaze locked onto the man who had dared to touch her. His presence alone shifts the atmosphere, turning the once-boisterous club into a hushed, waiting beast.
• He doesn't say another word.
• He doesn't have to.
• The man who had been harassing Lena stumbles back, trembling as though Luca's presence alone is enough to shatter his resolve. Without another glance, he turns and flees into the crowd.
• The moment is over, but Lena can't breathe. Her chest rises and falls in shallow gasps, her body still humming with the aftershocks of fear and adrenaline. Her eyes lock onto Luca's, and something electric passes between them—an unspoken acknowledgment, a silent challenge.
• He studies her with unreadable intensity before his voice curls around her like silk and steel. "Why is an underage girl in my club?"
• Lena bristles, her pulse still racing. "I'm not underage."
• His gaze darkens, amusement flickering behind the ice. "You can't lie to me. I know an underaged when I see one." His voice drops lower. "Try again."
• She hates how easily he sees through her. "I... I just wanted a drink."
• "A drink?" he repeats, his tone laced with disbelief. "In this place? With these people?"
• He exhales sharply, the sound edged with frustration. "You don't belong here. Leave. Now."
• He turns to leave, but something about him captivates her—the lethal grace, the commanding aura, the undeniable pull.
• She takes a step forward. "Wait."
• His gaze flickers over her again, this time slower. Assessing. Intrigued.
• "Tell me your name," she says, surprising herself with her boldness.
• "You already know who I am," he replies, eyes narrowing. "The question is, who are you?"
• "Lena," she answers, lifting her chin.
• Something flashes in his eyes—recognition, perhaps? It's gone before she can identify it.
• "Go home, little girl," he murmurs, his voice dipping into something lower, something that sends a shiver down her spine. "You don't know what you're playing with."
• But Lena is nothing if not stubborn.
• A teasing smile plays at her lips as she tilts her head. "Maybe I want to play. Maybe I'm tired of being safe."
• Luca's jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists at his sides. "Safety is a luxury most people don't appreciate until it's gone." He steps closer, his scent—expensive cologne and something purely masculine—enveloping her. "Trust me when I say you don't want to lose it."
• "Is that a threat?" she challenges, heart racing.
• His lips curve into a dangerous smile. "It's a warning, Lena Moretti. One you'd be wise to heed."
• And just like that, Lena knows—she has gotten under his skin.