Chapter 3 3

Damian's pov

There's a rule I've lived by for years:

If I want something, I get it.

Money, respect, fear it doesn't matter. Everything bends, eventually.

But apparently, no one told the masked dancer.

It's the second night Marco drags me back to the club. I'd like to say it's against my will, but the truth? I came looking for her.

The music is different tonight, slower, dirtier, but she moves the same sharp, controlled, like she's above it all. My drink stays untouched as my eyes trace every movement. Marco leans in.

Marco was grinning like a devil who had just pulled me into hell. He leaned back in his seat, drink in hand, enjoying the chaos around us like this was some kind of holy place.

Me? I was still trying to figure out how I let him drag me into a club that smelled like sweat, cheap perfume, and regret.

The lights pulsed. Men hooted. Somewhere in the corner, a guy was already crying into his whiskey. And then there was me, Damian Moretti mafia lord, strategist, the man people feared and apparently, tonight's unwilling audience to pole-dancing.

"You're sulking," Marco said, sipping his drink like he was critiquing a fine wine.

"I'm sitting," I corrected flatly.

"With your arms crossed like a toddler."

"I don't sulk."

Marco raised a brow. "You glare, then. Same thing."

I shot him a look sharp enough to slice his glass in two. He only grinned wider. That was Marco. He found joy in poking the bear.

And then the music shifted.

It wasn't the frantic bass that rattled your teeth; it was slower, more deliberate, something that made the room lean forward without realizing it. The stage lights dimmed, then burned bright again and she walked out.

The mask caught the first shimmer of light. Black, smooth, covering half her face. Mystery wrapped in skin. Her body moved like water around the pole, sharp and fluid at the same time. I heard men shout, whistle, nearly choke on their drinks.

Me? I forgot how to breathe.

She didn't move for them. I could see it instantly. Every turn, every arch of her back, every swing of her hips none of it was for the crowd. It was for herself. And that's what made her dangerous.

"She's something, huh?" Marco muttered, nudging me with his elbow.

"Something," I echoed, though my voice came out low. Too low.

The tattoo on her lower back flashed as she bent, the kind of mark that wasn't just ink it was a statement. My gaze locked there longer than I'd like to admit.

I didn't clap. Didn't cheer. Didn't drool like the rest of them. I just watched. Because suddenly, watching was all I wanted to do.

After her set, I couldn't sit still. My glass sat untouched while Marco kept rambling about how I "finally looked alive."

Alive? More like being infected. I couldn't get that damn image out of my head. the mask, the tattoo, the way she didn't give a damn about the crowd.

By the time I stood, Marco smirked like he'd been waiting for this moment. "Careful, brother. Siren doesn't do private sessions."

Siren. So that was her name here. It fit. Too well.

"I don't care," I muttered, already walking.

The hallway backstage smelled different, less perfume, more sweat and cleaning supplies. A bouncer gave me a look until I met his eyes; then he stepped aside without a word. Fear had its perks.

And then I saw her.

She was in front of a cracked mirror, mask still on, toweling sweat from her hair. Up close, she was worse. Worse in the way that made your chest tight.

I leaned against the doorway. "You're good."

She didn't look up. "That's the job."

Cold. Flat. Like I was just another drunk fan.

I smirked. "No, you're better than good. You make men forget they have homes to go back to."

"Sounds like their problem." Still not looking at me.

That should've annoyed me. Hell, it did annoy me. I wasn't used to being brushed off like a piece of lint.

So I stepped further in, letting my voice drop lower. "Do a private dance for me."

She paused, finally meeting my eyes in the mirror. Her gaze through the mask was steady, unreadable. Then she turned back to toweling her hair like I hadn't spoken.

"I don't do private sessions."

I chuckled, slow and disbelieving. "Everyone has a price."

"Not me."

That made me laugh outright. It wasn't amusement, it was the shock of someone daring to say no. "You're in a place where men pay for pieces of you. Don't act holy."

She finally turned to face me, mask gleaming under the fluorescent light. Her voice was calm, almost bored. "And yet here I stand, with every piece of me still mine. Take the hint."

It hit like a slap. Not the words, but the delivery. Calm. Unfazed. Like my existence didn't matter.

I should've walked away. Instead, I found myself stepping closer. "You don't know who I am."

"Doesn't matter."

The air thinned. No sharp comebacks, no pleading, no flicker of fear. Just steady dismissal.

And I... hated it.

Because the more she pushed me away, the more I wanted to pull her closer.

I left before I did something stupid, Marco trailing behind me with that damn grin.

"So?" he prodded as we hit the night air.

"She said no."

Marco blinked, then burst into laughter. "No? To you?"

"Don't start."

He kept laughing anyway, nearly doubled over. "Damian Moretti, brought down by a dancer with a mask. I'll drink to that."

I shoved him toward the car, muttering under my breath. But even as we drove off, my mind wasn't on Marco's laughter. It wasn't on the city lights flashing past.

It was on her. The calm voice. The cold eyes. The untouchable mask.

I'd never been denied before. And now that I had...

Now, I knew I wouldn't rest until I tore that mask off.