Laila's POV
5 days later
Vincenzo strides up to the bouncer, disregarding the long queue of eager club-goers. Just like he did at the restaurant the other day, he introduces me, disclosing my identity as Francisco Scorsese's daughter since no one knows of my existence.
"Give me a call when you're ready to head home. And remember, stay in the VIP section. No wandering around, okay? Don't go overboard with drinks or any of that crazy stuff. No drugs, seriously. Got it? Oh, and never go to the bathroom alone. Stick with Elena. And no chasing after guys, even if you're crushing on someone!" Vincenzo bombards me with a thousand pieces of advice, his nerves palpable, as if I were some naive, wide-eyed teenager. I nod and bid him farewell.
Stepping inside, I can't help but sense the undeniable "mob" vibe that saturates the club's atmosphere. It's massive, extravagant beyond belief. I can't fathom why a nightclub needs to be so outrageously luxurious. The costs of keeping it running must be astronomical, yet they never seem to raise their prices. Instead, they keep adding more and more to the mix: professional dancers, circus performers, A-list DJs and performers, top-notch drinks at affordable prices, and an army of staff members who ensure lightning-fast service, catering to even the most budget-conscious party animals.
And if that's not enough evidence, despite the diverse population, all the VIP booths surrounding the massive dance floor are exclusively occupied by intriguing Italian men, some of them advanced in age, accompanied by their Cosa Nostra women. It's not just their appearance, but also the way they speak, dress, and carry themselves that gives it away. It's painfully obvious.
Meanwhile, on the sprawling dance floors, oblivious civilians dance without a care, completely unaware of the danger lurking in their midst. Little do they know that many individuals in this establishment are armed and ruthless murderers who wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger. They remain oblivious to the fact that on the second floor, behind tinted windows overlooking the dance floor below, resides the city's most powerful mob boss. And in the basement, he meets with his men to plan their next sinister moves.
As a regular civilian, I would never step foot in a place like this. But perhaps others wouldn't know any better. Maybe they see this venue as one of the trendiest spots in town, offering an upscale experience at an affordable price. Everyone knows that La Dolce Vita is the club where you can feel luxurious and sophisticated for a night, even if you're not. Yet, curiously, no one seems to question how this business model thrives so successfully, despite the fact that the numbers simply don't add up.
I had never set foot in this place before, deliberately avoiding any involvement in this lifestyle. Yet, here I am, once again being dropped off by Vincenzo, as if this is my new reality, and I must conform, pretending to be like my peers. And perhaps, deep down, there's a small part of me that longs to see Michael again, especially since he hasn't shown up at the firm this week. Five days without seeing him, and I'm already missing that infuriating face of his.
I know he probably handed me the contract earlier this week to shield my father from the truth about how those perverts were talking about me in the restaurant. But the truth is, when I witnessed Michael drop his cold facade and engage in genuine business conversations with me, even offering a sincere smile, my heart started racing uncontrollably. It was a side of him that I instantly craved, a version of him that I would do anything to experience again.
A waitress approaches and guides me to a booth occupied by a group of impeccably groomed girls, exuding an air of superiority, delicately sipping on their extravagant cocktails.
Elena, Nicoletta's twenty-one-year-old sister, seems to be the one I'm supposed to stick with since I don't know anyone else here.
"Heyyyy Lailaaaaa!" she shrieks as I ascend the three small steps to the booth.
I return her greeting with a warm smile, offering a hug, and I can tell she's not entirely present, but I choose not to make a fuss about it. Elena falls into the category of plastic perfection: a surgically enhanced butt, artificial breasts, overly plumped lips, long black hair extensions, and exaggerated eyelashes. Personally, I believe she would look better in her natural state, but each to their own. And judging by the company she keeps, it seems that embracing superficiality has become the norm in this generation. Despite feeling completely out of place, I still take a seat on the couch beside Elena.
It takes me approximately five minutes to realize that these girls are indulging in cocaine, which only adds to my discomfort. However, I refrain from passing judgment. Living this kind of life requires a certain strength, and who knows, maybe I'll end up succumbing to the allure of drugs too once I'm married to a made man I don't love.
After being inside for thirty minutes, I'm already contemplating texting Vincenzo to come and pick me up. Despite my anticipation, I keep stealing glances at the second-floor office, hoping to catch a glimpse of Michael emerging from there, but it appears he's not even present.
Suddenly, the girls begin chattering excitedly, capturing my attention. When I direct my gaze to where they're all looking, I spot Michael ascending the basement stairs, accompanied by three impeccably dressed men. They trail behind him, as if he were a king and they were his loyal subjects. I can't deny that his commanding presence entices me, just like it does the other girls.
He seems visibly irritated and tense, probably due to the meeting he just had. However, in a sudden exhale, he appears to force himself to soften his expression. He walks over to a booth, and to my surprise, he warmly greets one of the girls seated there, planting two kisses on her cheeks.
She's stunning, and my heart skips a beat. He takes a seat beside her, and they engage in conversation. I can't help but wonder what they could possibly be discussing. And why does Michael appear so pleasant and agreeable with her? Why is he smiling at her, whereas he's often annoyed with me ninety-eight percent of the time?
A wave of jealousy washes over me as I observe the scene from a distance. "Who is Michael talking to?" I inquire, hoping that my attempt at concealing my jealousy has been successful.
"That's Gabriella Gambini, Vinnie's daughter," Elena responds, her gaze fixed on them. "He's probably going to marry her to establish a strategic alliance between our families. Vinnie is making his intentions clear by sending her here."
That explains it. Of course, Michael would choose his spouse based on strategic considerations. I should have known. I don't understand why this thought makes me feel nauseous. I don't even care who he marries. I'm merely physically attracted to him, nothing more.
That girl over there, she's perfect for him. Probably everything he's looking for. She embodies the ideal Cosa Nostra woman, polite, composed, and reserved—everything I am not. As he always remarks, I tend to speak my mind too freely... I have no desire to transform into her, so it's good for them that they fit together so seamlessly.
And yet, I can't fathom why my heart won't stop racing at the thought, as if I were about to take a daunting exam that I'm not prepared for. What is this sudden surge of stress that I'm feeling?
Finally, Michael rises from the couch, instructing the waiter in her section to take special care of Gabriella. He then smiles at her, gently caressing her chin with his index finger, while she gazes at him with admiration in her eyes.
That's it. I can't handle any more of this. Michael has never shown me such tenderness, and all I'm trying to do is help him increase his profits? What an asshole. I hate him. What's so special about this girl, anyway?
I cross my arms and sink deeper into the couch, seething with rage. I never want to speak to him again because he's perfectly capable of being civil with other women, yet he treats me like vermin.
He starts walking towards my booth, and I pray to God that he doesn't notice me because I don't even want to lay eyes on him right now.
However, as soon as he reaches my vicinity, I can't help but look up. Our eyes meet, and just as I expected, he stares at me as if I were some low-class citizen. So I reciprocate, and his expression darkens. He hasn't stopped walking this entire time, yet his gaze remains fixed on me. He even glances back slightly before breaking eye contact. I don't back down. What did he expect? That I would look at him with admiration like this Gabriella girl? Maybe I would, if he treated me with the respect I deserve.
He ascends the stairs and enters his office on the second floor. It's infuriating how he has a clear view of me while I'm left guessing, thanks to the tinted windows. I'd rather immerse myself in the pulsing crowd on the dance floor than endure the potential disdainful glances from Michael Rizzuto, perched upon his throne.
I rise from the couch, determined, and stride toward the three small steps leading to the dance floor. However, a big man positions himself in my path, effectively blocking me.
"Where do you think you're going?" he questions.
"Um...to the dance floor," I reply, feeling perplexed.
"No, sorry, you can't," he responds apologetically. "You're supposed to stay in the VIP section."
Confusion furrows my brow. "I believe there's a misunderstanding here. I'm just heading down to that dance floor. Right over there," I gesture towards the dance floor located merely five steps away.
"Apologies, Ms. Scorsese, but you must remain in the VIP section."
How does this man even know my name?
"Okay, but why? And who are you? I've seen plenty of other girls going to the dance floor, so I believe I should be allowed as well."
"No, you're not. It's the boss's orders."
"What boss?" I inquire, taken aback.
He regards me with a look of disbelief. "Michael Rizzuto," he responds in a patronizing tone.
I gasp, utterly appalled. The audacity of this man! He's preventing me from escaping the VIP section, and for what? Just to make my life a living hell. That seems to be his favorite pastime when it comes to me!
"And what if I want to leave?!" I exclaim crossing my arms, my frustration evident in my voice.
"You'll need an escort," he states matter-of-factly.
I press my finger against the big man's chest. "Listen here, you're going to let me go right now, or else you're going to face serious consequences, got it? I'm a lawyer."
He chuckles, and I gasp. "You'll have to take it up with the boss."
Overwhelmed by frustration, I raise my two middle fingers defiantly in the air, directing my gaze towards the tinted windows upstairs. I hope, with every fiber of my being, that Michael catches sight of my gesture, even though deep down, I know I'll probably regret it.
"You better pray he didn't see that," the big man responds, utterly flabbergasted, shaking his head.
Suddenly, his gaze drops to his phone, and he grimaces. "Looks like it's your unlucky day. He wants to see you."
My eyes widen. "Wait, who?"
Before I can fully comprehend what's unfolding, the big guy effortlessly lifts me by the waist, guides me down the three steps, and firmly clasping my arms, drags me across the club.
"No, no, no! Wait!" I struggle, attempting to resist. "Where are you taking me?"
"You flipped off the boss. What did you think would happen? You're about to face the consequences. A real lesson, so you can learn how to behave."
Panic courses through me. I never intended for Michael to actually witness my act of blatant disrespect. I've never gone this far before, and I have no idea what to expect. I swiftly grab my cellphone and text my father:
I'm in trouble! I pissed off Michael and now he's taking me to his office. Papà, I'm gonna die! Come rescue me, please, please, please!
After clicking the "send" button, I find myself being coerced by the big guy to ascend the stairs, but I refuse to surrender. However, once again, he effortlessly lifts me by the waist and carries me up the stairs. Only when we reach Michael's office door does he place me back on the floor. He knocks, and the little red laser on the door transitions to green with a click sound. The big guy opens the door, revealing Michael standing up, his intense gaze fixed upon me. I swallow hard. The big guy nudges me inside, and just as he's about to close the door before leaving, Michael utters, "Keep it open."
I breathe a sigh of relief, realizing that he can't possibly harm me with the door open, in front of all these innocent bystanders. Unless, of course, public humiliation is to be my punishment.
I remain near the door, terrified to be honest, as I've essentially indirectly told the mafia boss to go to hell. It's a line I never imagined crossing in my entire life. If Michael doesn't finish me off now, my father will surely resort to his bare hands to do the job.
"Why are you angry?" Michael asks, surprising me. I had anticipated a barrage of insults. Moreover, as I observe him, his gaze lacks the menacing intensity I had come to expect.
"Um...I'm not angry," I respond, still skeptical. His abnormal calmness makes me wonder if this is just his demeanor right before he eliminates his victims, like a deranged psychopath.
"Is that why you gave me a death stare and flipped me off just now?" he continues, his composure still unnervingly intact.
My breath quickens, and fear is gradually overtaken by another sensation. His gaze, I can't bear it. It's too intense to endure. The menacing stare, I can handle it. But this... it's different. It delves too deep, almost as if he's peering into the depths of my soul. My body temperature rises with each passing second.
"It's... I was... I wanted to go to the dance floor, and you stopped me..." I stammer, completely losing my composure. The tension in the room is palpable. I recognize that look, I've seen it before. It's the gaze of deep desire.
"You were angry even before that," he remarks, and I know exactly where this conversation is headed. I can sense it in the air—he wants me to admit that I was jealous. But why should I give in to that?
"I wasn't," I deny, trying to maintain my ground.
"Yeah, you were. I know you," he asserts.
I exhale slowly, attempting to hold back my words. I turn them over in my mind, as if testing their weight, because what happens next if I tell him the truth?
"Do you expect me to smile at you and be polite when you constantly look at me as if I'm some kind of disgrace? I know you're capable of being courteous and civil; I've witnessed it with other girls."
"Other girls," he repeats, his gaze deepening. "You know it's purely business, right?"
My facade crumbles like an ice cream melting under an excruciating sun as I dare to ask, "So you're going to marry her, huh?"
"Why do you care?" he counters.
"I could ask you the same, Michael. Why do you care about who I marry and when?"
Our eyes remain fixed on each other, and a heavy silence descends upon us. The pressure becomes unbearable, with my pulse throbbing between my legs, knowing that he desires me just as intensely. Common sense fades into insignificance; all I want is him, with a fervor that renders me incapable of rational thought. Warmth spreads through my body, clouding my mind.
I glance behind me, reaching out to close the door. Yet, Michael swiftly steps towards me, blocking my attempt. "Leave it open."
Standing mere centimeters away, his warmth radiates towards me, enveloping me in its intoxicating embrace.
"Why?" I inquire, my voice breathless. It dawns on me that he wants the door open to resist the very thoughts that have consumed him.
In an impulsive moment, I push his hand down and close the door. He doesn't resist, and I notice a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"I'm marrying her," he declares.
The words strike my heart, yet my desire shows no signs of abating. There is only one thing I crave.
"I know. I just..." Shame washes over me as I realize I'm on the verge of pleading with him to take me. "I need to release this... I really need to... Maybe we'll both feel better afterwards."
His breathing quickens, and I can see him battling against the desire, resisting the temptation. I have to admire his resolve. But, deep down, I yearn for him to surrender to this internal struggle.
"Please..." I whisper, and suddenly, I am lifted into the air. The next thing I know, I am seated on his desk, my legs spread apart as Michael's body stands between them.
I find myself overwhelmed with excitement, surpassing anything I've ever experienced before. The anticipation of feeling his body against mine causes sweat to form on my skin.
And then, he takes me. All of me.
I had imagined this moment countless times, but reality is nothing like what I had pictured. Michael is rough, as I expected. He exudes dominance and control, holding me firmly in place, positioning me exactly as he desires. He sets the rhythm and tempo, driving me to the edge of madness. I am completely at his mercy, unable to control my own pleasure. Yet, it feels intoxicating, like being in a state of pure euphoria.
But it's those unexpected moments of tenderness that catch me off guard. His generosity in pleasuring me, the way he treats my body as if it were a precious work of art, as if I am the most exquisite fruit he has ever tasted. He takes his time, slowing down when the pressure builds, pushing me to the brink of insanity until pleas escape my lips repeatedly. I can sense that he revels in seeing me beg, and it only further arouses me. My voice echoes through his office as I can't help but scream his name, pleading for him to release me from this torment and push me to the edge. Yet, at the same time, I never want this to end. The duality of pleasure and pain is maddening, igniting lightning flashes behind my eyes, causing my body to writhe in ways unrecognizable to myself. I am completely consumed by my sexual desire at this point, with no concern for how horny I may sound or appear. In this moment, I would do anything for this man.
Just before I reach the peak of my pleasure, I gaze into his eyes, and it becomes clear that this obsession is far from over. In fact, we may have just added gasoline to the fire...