The message came mid-afternoon, sliding onto her desk with all the subtlety of a whisper.
"You're coming with me tonight. Club's called Rook. Wear black."
— L
Lina stared at the text, fingers motionless on the keyboard.
No explanation. No follow-up.
Just an order.
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Fifteen minutes later, he passed her office without slowing. No knock. Just a glance through the glass — silent confirmation.
It wasn't a request.
It never was.
—
By 10:03 p.m., she stood beneath Rook's entrance, the unmarked brass door gleaming in the lamplight. To anyone else, it looked like the back of a butcher shop. But inside, it was pure decadence.
Black marble floors. Gold-framed chandeliers. Velvet booths sunk into shadows. Soft bass rolled through the walls like a pulse. Every inch of it whispered exclusive. Dangerous.
She wore black satin — backless, sleeveless, cut like sin and silk. Her heels made no apologies. Her eyes made no promises.
As she stepped inside, conversations softened. Eyes dragged toward her. Some curious. Some calculating. And a few already afraid.
Because they knew.
She belonged to him now.
Not in contract. Not in name.
But in ways that mattered more.
She didn't look for him — didn't need to.
She felt him.
High above, in the mezzanine booth, behind the dark glass.
Watching.
Judging.
Waiting.
She didn't look up. Just smiled faintly and walked the perimeter — first to Sofia, who gave her a clipped nod and nothing else. Then to Jonas, who was pretending not to scan for threats.
And then came Dante Kroll.
All charm, all money, all ego.
He intercepted her at the bar.
"Ms. Reyes," he said, low and lazy. "Didn't know the new girl came with heels and bite."
She turned just enough to pin him with a glance.
"Keep talking, and I'll show you both."
He laughed — the loud, ugly kind.
"Don't be like that. I'm just trying to figure out what Romano sees in you." He tilted his head. "Or what he hasn't taken yet."
She set her glass down, every muscle relaxed — but her voice was steel.
"Leave. Now."
But Dante leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Come on. A girl like you doesn't want to be owned by a man like that. You want danger that doesn't pretend to love you."
That's when the atmosphere cracked.
The temperature dropped.
The crowd shifted subtly — like prey feeling a predator behind them.
In the mirror, she saw Luca moving down the stairs.
Black shirt. No tie. Eyes cold. Hands empty.
But they wouldn't be for long.
And Dante Kroll had just bought himself the worst night of his life.
Lina didn't flinch.
Not when Dante reached for her again.
Not when his fingers grazed her wrist.
Not when he leaned in and whispered, "He doesn't own you. Not really. Not the way I would."
She turned her head just enough to let him see the warning in her eyes.
But she didn't get the chance to reply.
Because Luca was already there.
It didn't happen with a shout or a threat.
It happened like a judgment.
One second, Dante was still smirking.
The next, he was slammed face-first into the bar.
The sound of impact cracked through the club like a dropped piano. Glass exploded. Bottles tipped. Someone gasped. No one moved.
Luca didn't hesitate.
He grabbed Dante by the collar, dragged him upright — not gently — and punched him once across the face.
Then again.
Then again.
Each strike precise. Efficient. No flair. No wasted breath.
Just punishment.
Dante was screaming now — or trying to. Blood ran down his chin, his nose, soaked into his teeth. He collapsed backward, half-conscious.
Luca stood over him like a shadow carved in human shape.
"You speak to her again," he said coldly, "I'll rip out your tongue and mail it to your mother."
Dante coughed, wheezing.
Luca didn't even look at the blood.
He turned, met Lina's eyes, and spoke only two words:
"Come. Now."
Then he looked to the security team, who had materialized from the edges of the room like ghosts.
"Ban him. Every property. Worldwide."
One nod.
Dante Kroll would never see another syndicate-owned bar, restaurant, casino, or rooftop lounge as long as he breathed.
And Luca?
He was already walking away — expecting her to follow.
But Lina stood there a second longer, heart thundering, skin flushed, shame and something darker tangling beneath her ribs.
Because part of her hated it.
And part of her…
Didn't.
The private lounge behind Rook's mezzanine was soundproofed — probably for this exact kind of conversation. Low leather sofas. Dim lighting. A decanter sweating on a side table. Everything expensive. Nothing soft.
Luca stood near the window, unbothered, his hands relaxed at his sides. The skyline glinted behind him.
Lina shut the door harder than she meant to.
"You don't get to do that," she snapped.
He didn't turn. "I just did."
"You attacked a syndicate associate in front of half the inner circle."
"He touched you."
"I could've handled it."
He turned now, slowly. "No. You froze."
She laughed once — bitter. "So now I'm weak? That it?"
"You're not weak," he said, stepping toward her. "You're mine."
She stopped moving.
Those two words split the air between them like a shot.
"I'm not your anything," she said, low and shaking. "I'm not a thing to own. You don't get to brand me like a—"
"I already did," he cut in. "You just haven't figured out where yet."
She hit him.
Hard.
A sharp, flat slap across his cheek that echoed in the room like gunfire.
But this time, he didn't let her walk away.
He caught her wrist.
Firm.
Not cruel.
Just final.
Her breath hitched.
"You keep doing that," he said, voice low. "You keep acting like you don't know how this ends."
"Let. Me. Go."
"I don't want to."
She stared up at him, chest rising fast.
"Say it again," she challenged. "Say it out loud. Say I'm your property."
His grip didn't tighten.
But his voice dropped to something dangerous.
"You're mine, Lina. Every man in that room knows it now. And after what you let me do in that office—so do you."
She didn't respond.
She couldn't.
Because he wasn't wrong.
And that terrified her more than the way he touched her.