7
I’d spent over an hour just staring at my ankle, testing its range of motion again and again. It looked fine felt fine, even but the speed of its recovery made my skin crawl. None of my past injuries had ever healed this fast. So either I’d exaggerated how badly I twisted it… or the wildest possibility was true: my boss had actually appeared in my room, uninvited, and dosed me with something some kind of enchanted elixir that healed me.
The latter theory was absurd. Completely insane. Just like the entire dream. Anyone with half a functioning brain would laugh it off and question the mental health of anyone who didn’t. And yet… despite how surreal the whole thing had been, there was always one part of my dreams involving Gosto that didn’t feel like a dream at all.
Him.
The way he moved. The weight of his gaze. The scent of him rich and dark, like amber and smoke. I couldn’t explain it. He didn’t feel like a dream. He felt real.
I shook my head sharply, as if the motion could somehow expel the thoughts of him from my mind. Of course, it didn’t work.
I drew a deep breath, then another, as if sheer oxygen intake could help me reconnect with reason. Let’s look at the facts: when I woke, I was still in my usual ratty tee and shorts no silk gown in sight. My nightstand was as cluttered as ever, and there was no glass, no evidence that anything extraordinary had happened while I slept.
So clearly, it had been nothing but a dream. Just a dream. The logical explanation. The only sane one.
But then why was I still picturing him with fangs?
That image the flash of sharp white protruding from between his lips made a chill run down my spine. It should have scared me. It did scare me. But it also… thrilled me.
“There is something seriously wrong with you, Domitilla,” I groaned aloud, slapping my cheeks with both hands. Clearly, this was the fault of all the fantasy books I devoured like candy.
“Your boss is not a vampire, or any other kind of sexy, supernatural creature,” I told myself out loud, breathing harder. “Because those things don’t exist.”
Yet the more I tried to talk sense into myself, the more he invaded my thoughts. I was starting to suspect I was a hopeless case.
The ring of my phone tore through the silence, jolting me upright.
“Hello?” I answered without checking the ID.
“This is Diamante from Velluto Nero,” came the familiar voice. I recognized her immediately she was the one I spoke to during the recruitment call.
I cleared my throat. “Yes?”
“We’re short a few waitresses for tonight. I know we had you scheduled for Wednesday, but could you come in this evening?”
My heart leapt into my throat. Gosto. I might see him again. Every warning bell in my brain rang, screaming at me to get a grip. But my heartbeat drowned them out.
“Yes. I can be there tonight,” I said, too quickly.
“Wonderful!” I could practically hear her smiling. “Thank you, Domitilla. I knew we could count on you.”
“You did?” I murmured.
“Of course. You strike me as dependable… and kind.”
Kind? We hadn’t even met in person. I didn’t know what she looked like, and she barely knew me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. A quiet sense of unease stirred in my gut—and it didn’t go away.
When I arrived at Velluto Nero hours later, that unease only grew. The club wasn’t open yet, but staff members bustled around, preparing for the night ahead. Two men I hadn’t seen before stood near the center, reviewing documents. Both wore sharply tailored suits that seemed more like armor than clothing.
“Who are they?” I asked Lelia, pointing toward the duo.
She made a face. “The one with the short brown hair and eyes like slits that’s Ireneo. The other one, with slicked-back black hair and those piercing blue eyes? That’s Pacifico. I can’t stand either of them.”
“Management?” I asked, brows raised.
She sighed. “Unfortunately.”
“I thought Ermes handled the club’s affairs?”
She laughed dryly. “I wish. Ermes’s the owner’s right hand, but Velluto Nero isn’t their only business. When Ermes’s off handling other things, they show up.”
She nodded toward the suited men with visible distaste.
“Should I be worried?” I asked, voice low.
Something unreadable passed over Lelia’s face a flicker, like a shadow. “Most girls seem to like them, but I get this cold, crawling feeling whenever they’re near. Like something's... off.”
I nodded, sharing the sentiment. I turned to slip away toward the dressing room.
Too late.
“You must be Domitilla,” came a low, rasping voice that stopped me in my tracks.
I turned, pasting on a polite smile. “Yes?”
Pacifico approached, eyes glinting. He stopped just a foot away. I instinctively stepped back straight into the wall. His smirk deepened as his gaze swept over me like a slow caress.
“Is there something you need, sir?” I asked, forcing calm into my voice.
He leaned in, invading my space. “Shall I assign you to the upper floor?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a decision waiting to be confirmed.
The VIP section meant bigger tips, sure but Gosto wasn’t there tonight.
“I prefer working on the ground floor, thank you.” I kept my voice light but firm.
Surprise flickered across his face, like no one had dared say no before.
He turned abruptly. “Lelia! Come here!”
She obeyed instantly, all smiles and lightness.
What the hell? Just minutes ago, she said she hated him.
“Lelia,” Pacifico said smoothly, “wouldn’t you prefer to work upstairs tonight?”
“I’d love to,” she answered cheerily. I frowned, bewildered.
He clapped his hands and strode away, satisfied.
“What just happened?” I whispered, grabbing Lelia’s arm. “I thought you couldn’t stand him, and now you’re thrilled to work the VIP floor?”
She shrugged. “I just… really need the money, Domitilla.”
I exhaled. I couldn’t blame her. I’d swallowed my pride for cash more times than I could count.
“Just be careful up there, okay?” I told her.
She grinned. “I will. I’ll tell you everything later.”
“It’s a deal.”
Throughout the night, I occasionally saw her rushing along the upper balcony, balancing drinks and flashing easy smiles. She looked fine. That put me at ease for a while.
But just half an hour before closing, a scream cut through the music. Shrill. Terrified.
My heart seized. I whipped my head up. Nothing unusual in the hallway… but that scream it had come from inside one of the VIP rooms.
A chill crawled up my spine. Something wasn’t right.
“Is everything okay?” a man’s voice asked. Velvet-smooth.
Ireneo.
He studied my face, then narrowed his eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I heard someone scream,” I said.
He tilted his head. “I didn’t hear anything. You must be mistaken.”
“No. It came from the VIP area.”
His gaze sharpened. “Domitilla. Look at me.”
His voice dropped, soft and hypnotic.
I looked. I couldn’t not.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now remember: nothing happened. There was no scream.”
Every nerve in my body screamed to defy him but something primal, some cold instinct for survival, kept me silent. I nodded. Slowly.
He smiled. “Good girl.”
He turned and walked away, while dread twisted in my gut.
After closing, I changed out of my uniform, wiped away my makeup, and waited for Lelia.
She never came.
“I saw her leave ten minutes ago,” someone told me.
But I didn’t believe them.
Something had happened.
Something terrible.