Chapter 4- Pretty Little Fingers
We all leaned in, watching like hawks, drinks forgotten, hearts pounding.
Alessandro’s mouth moved. Julia blinked up at him, her lashes fluttering like she’d been hit with a heatwave. And then she froze.
Her smile vanished.
Her cheeks flushed—pink, then crimson. And then, just as quickly as she’d gone up to him, she turned on her heel and walked—no, fled—back to our booth.
I stood up immediately. “What did he say?”
Julia reached for her drink like she needed holy water, chugged half of it, then pressed a hand to her chest.
“Oh my God,” she muttered. “His voice. His voice is every girl’s wet dream wrapped in gravel and sin. I think I just ovulated.”
Rosetta gawked at her. “What did he say to you?!”
She looked between us like she was deciding whether to tell the truth or die with it.
And then she whispered, mimicking his deep timbre, “‘If you touch me again, I’ll break your pretty little fingers so gently you’ll thank me for it.’”
Silence.
Utter, dumbstruck silence.
Then—
“You’re blushing because he threatened you?” Camila exploded, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink. “Oh my God.”
Rosetta’s jaw dropped. “That’s what he said? And your face turned into a tomato?!”
Julia fanned herself. “He said my fingers were pretty, okay? That counts as a compliment in my world.”
I stared at her like she’d lost her damn mind. “So now threats are sexy?”
“Yes,” all three of them said in perfect unison.
Unbelievable.
“This is a disaster,” I muttered, sinking into the booth, my plan dissolving into smoke. “I wanted to humiliate him, not turn you all into starstruck groupies.”
Camila sipped her drink with a dreamy sigh. “Honestly, if this was a rom-com, he’d be the morally grey love interest we root for while ignoring the sweet guy next door.”
Rosetta leaned on the table. “Aria, babe, I hate to say it… but he’s unbreakable.”
“I don’t care,” I said, finishing off my cocktail. “He doesn’t get to win. Not tonight.”
“Then what’s the new plan?” Julia asked.
“No plan,” I said firmly, standing up. “He can stand there and brood all he wants. He’s not going to ruin my night.”
“Damn right,” Camila agreed, lifting her glass. “To men who don’t deserve us.”
“To tequila,” Rosetta added.
“To fingers,” Julia giggled, and we burst into laughter again.
The drinks kept coming. One round turned into three. The music pulsed harder, bodies pressed tighter, and somewhere between shots and screaming the lyrics to a Dua Lipa song, we were back on the dancefloor.
It was glorious chaos.
Camila twirled under neon lights, her dress flaring like smoke. Rosetta climbed onto a platform and made the crowd cheer with just a wink and a sway. Julia danced with a bartender who’d clearly forgotten he was working.
And me?
I let go.
The music thundered beneath my feet, around my body, inside my bones. I moved without thinking, without caring. Letting every ounce of frustration, rage, and power pour out through movement.
I could still feel him, though.
That gaze.
A heat across my skin like a phantom touch.
I turned sharply and caught sight of him across the club.
Still there.
Still watching.
Like he wasn’t a man at all—just some sentient shadow sent to haunt me.
Screw him.
I spun away and dragged Camila into a twerk-off, Rosetta cheering us on like we were on a stripper runway. Julia threw dollar bills from her purse like we were performing at a Vegas club.
It was obscene.
It was perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
They came out of nowhere—four men, maybe five. Muscled, expensive suits, too clean-shaven for this club. They didn’t look like party boys. They looked like sharks in Prada. Cold eyes. Cold smiles. The kind that didn't belong on a dancefloor—they belonged in a boardroom or a back alley.
One of them grabbed Julia’s wrist mid-dance.
She flinched. “Excuse me?”
“You girls look like you could use some real company,” he said, his accent slick and European. Russian, maybe.
Camila stepped forward. “We’re good, thanks.”
He didn’t let go.
I stepped between them.
“Let her go,” I said calmly, clearly.
The man smiled at me. “You’re even prettier up close.”
I didn’t flinch. “Try that again. I dare you.”
His eyes narrowed. He dropped Julia’s wrist—but only to reach for me.
That’s when it happened.
Alessandro moved.
One second he was a silent sentinel by the wall—and the next, he was a force of nature carving through the crowd.
He grabbed the man’s wrist mid-air, twisted it until I heard a sickening crack, and slammed him face-first against the nearest wall so fast I didn’t even register the blur.
Gasps echoed.
Another guy lunged toward him. Alessandro didn’t even blink—he just ducked, grabbed him by the lapels, and drove his knee straight into the man’s ribs. I heard the breath leave his lungs before he dropped like a sack of bricks.
The third man hesitated—then made the mistake of reaching behind his jacket.
“Gun!” someone shouted.
But I was done playing damsel.