I want to drag her onto my lap. I want to push that dress up to her waist, rip those panties aside, and bury myself so deep inside her she forgets her own name.
I want to taste her again, swallow every moan, feel her come apart on my cock while the city lights blur past the windows.
How perfectly she’d fit around me, how sweet she’d sound begging, how good it would feel to ruin her for anyone else.
I’m losing my fucking mind. This woman is twisting me up in ways I’ve never allowed anyone to. And I don’t know how to make it stop.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nico
We pull up to The Pit, one of the underground fight clubs I own on the outskirts of the city, buried deep in an industrial part of town where cops know better than to linger and civilians never wander.
From the outside, the warehouse looks abandoned, rusted shutters, cracked concrete, no sign, no lights except the dim red glow above the steel entrance.
Tonight isn’t a fight night, which means the place belongs solely to my men.
I step out first, then offer Eleonora my hand. She takes it, and I feel the slight tremor in her fingers as she slides out of the SUV.
She looks around, eyes wide. “What is this place?”
I lean in slightly as we walk toward the entrance. “You'll see.”
The heavy doors slide open the moment we approach it, and the familiar scent of sweat, blood, cigar smoke, and expensive whiskey hits my nostrils.
The inside is built like a sin wrapped in luxury. Black leather booths line the lower level beneath low amber lights, cages of liquor gleaming behind the bar like trophies. Neon strips cast a crimson glow across the polished concrete floors, while bass-heavy music hums low through hidden speakers.
Elevated at the center of it all sits the fighting ring. Surrounded by black ropes. The canvas bears faint smears that no amount of cleaning ever fully removes.
Above the ring sit private balconies reserved for politicians, businessmen, and syndicate members wealthy enough to buy their way into places like this.
Soundproof VIP suites line the upper floor, their tinted windows overlooking the fights below.
My men occupy every corner of the club.
Some are inside the ring sparring shirtless, fists colliding. Others train against heavy bags suspended from steel beams, the chains rattling violently with every punch.
A few sit at the bar nursing drinks while counting cash, cleaning guns, or watching the fights.
The moment they see me, conversations die. Punches stop midway, the heavy bags stop swinging.
“Boss.”
Voices rise from every corner as my men straighten instinctively.
A few nod their heads. Others place fists over their chests.
My gaze sweeps over the room once before I lift two fingers casually.
“Continue.”
The tension breaks instantly. The music swells louder again. Fists resume colliding against flesh and punching bags.
Eleonora’s gaze darts everywhere, taking it all in with genuine awe. “You own this place?”
“It’s one of a few,” I say, watching her reaction.
One of my men approaches quickly and leans in. “Nikolai just arrived, Boss. He’s in the private lounge.”
