"Feel better soon," Elena calls after us as Giorgio wraps his hand around my upper arm and pushes through the door. I look up at him in question.
"I told her you were sick," he explains.
My stomach drops. He gave an excuse for why I won't return to work tonight. My nerves ratchet up as we approach Damiano's office. I try to summon a smile for Riccardo, who's hovering outside the door.
Damiano's enforcer has always been pleasant to me, but he still sends a sliver of ice down my spine every time I see him. Built like a tank, he looms over me, even though I'm taller than average, especially in four-inch heels.
"Violetta." His greeting is civil but not warm, which is par for the course with him. He opens the door for me. "Go right in. He'll be back in a minute."
"Thank you."
Giorgio releases his grip on me. I step into the room and Riccardo closes the door behind me. A heavy wooden desk dominates the space, a high-backed leather chair positioned behind it like a throne. Two smaller chairs sit opposite. There's no chance of missing who holds the power in the room.
Against the far wall is a black leather sofa with a chrome and glass table next to it. Abstract paintings line the walls, violent splashes of color on stark white canvases. They resemble blood spatter. I'm guessing that's the point.
Being left alone in Damiano's office feels like a test I have no idea how to pass. Should I sit, stand, prostrate myself on the floor ready to beg for forgiveness?
Before I can tangle myself in knots, the door opens. I spin around as Damiano walks into the room, immaculately dressed as always. His three-piece suit fits his imposing frame perfectly. There's something about a man in a vest that makes my knees wobble.
Not a single dark brown hair is out of place. The model businessman, he wears shoes that cost more than my monthly rent. A platinum watch gleams against his tanned wrist. He projects an image of influence and wealth, but the respectable façade is a lie that fools no one. This man has done terrible things.
As the door clicks shut behind him, I smile tremulously, trying to remind him I'm not his enemy.
"Violetta." He draws my name out in a deliberate purr.
For a fleeting moment, I imagine him standing behind me, his arm locked around my chest, whispering in my ear.Mine.I banish the thought. A man like him would eat me alive.
"You wanted to see me?" I congratulate myself on the steadiness of my voice.
"Yes."
His gaze drags slowly down my body. I'm used to men looking at me, but this is different. I'm not being admired. Damiano is assessing me, like he's trying to decide if I'm an asset or a liability.
Nervous, I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
"Why are you wearing that?" he asks coolly.
Is that why he wanted to see me? Does he not know what I did?
"Paolo's thinking of making it the new uniform. He asked me to test it tonight, see what the customers think."
Damiano's lip curls in disdain. "You look like you're selling yourself. This is not the image I want for the club."
The irritation in his voice makes me flinch. He's overreacting. The uniform Paolo had me wear consists of slim-fitting black pants, a red corset, and four-inch patent leather heels. It's sexier than the usual red dress the VIP hostesses wear, but it's not as if I'm parading about in my lingerie.
"Take it up with Paolo!" I snap before I can stop myself. "He told me to wear it."
Damiano raises an eyebrow, and I wince.
"Sorry,signore."
"Damiano." His voice is like a caress. "You're sorry, Damiano."
"Yes, Damiano. I'm sorry. Will that be all?"
He snorts derisively. "I didn't call you in here to discuss your clothing."
For a long beat, he just stares at me. My body becomes so tense I could snap in two. I'm on the verge of blurting out a confession when he reaches for my hair, wrapping a strand around his fingers. I gasp, unsure what's happening.
