Page 10 of Fatal Sloth

7

Sebastiano

By 11 p.m., my sleek black Mercedes glides to a stop as the driver expertly navigates through the bustling city streets. Tonight, the club, a front for my legal businesses, awaits my presence. The VIP section becomes my throne for the night, and as I settle in, the world revolves around my desires.

My second-in-command is rambling about some shipment mess, but my eyes aren't on the paperwork he’s trying to show me. They're locked on the dance floor, where the pulse of the night beats in rhythm with the music. I can't take my eyes off the doll on the dance floor. She's fucking beautiful. The silver dress she's wearing clings to her tiny figure, and even though she's a little skinny for my liking, I’m mesmerized by the way her body moves to the music. Anger surges forward when I see who else is watching her—fucking Russian scum Petra.

Why is he in my club?

The urge to rip his heart out drowns out the music as I watch him put his hands on her. Disgust is evident on her face as she tries to push him away. Without even thinking, I leave the VIP area abruptly, taking the stairs two at a time to get to the main dance floor.

Composed as ever, I push him away from her, showing him exactly who I am and who not to fuck with. My men flank each side of him and take him out of the club until I can question him later. Maybe take out my frustration on this stronzo

Looking down at my little damsel in distress, I'm met with eyes so blue, it’s like looking into the ocean. Being six-foot-two, I can see over the crowd of dancers on the floor, not missing how Petra gives my men a hard time as they take him outside, but not without giving me one final look. I wrap my arm around the blonde, staking my claim on her. A message to let him know he can't come to my club and touch anything that's mine. It’s all mine. But I'll deal with that stronzo later.

Before I can walk away, some drunk asshole bumps into the tiny damsel, almost knocking her to the ground. My instincts kick in, and I grab her around the waist, holding her up. Her tiny frame melts into mine, and damn, it sends blood straight to my dick. I should walk away, maybe take her with me and have my way with her before I head to the basement and find out why I have a Russian pezzo di merda in my club. But when she starts to move and dance against me, my dick gets impossibly hard, and my composed demeanor goes out the window as I start to sway along with her.

I actually start to fucking dance.

It’s not that I don’t know how to. I just choose not to dance at my clubs. I don't want to take my attention off who is in here or get distracted. Looking at her tiny frame shaking her ass in my arms, my composure cracks, and I claim those plush lips.

I’m taking you home tonight, Piccolina.

I'm about to make my move, about to claim the vision of sin and temptation in front of me. But before I can act and claim her for the night, Enzo interrupts. His timing is as impeccable as ever. I shoot him a glare, but he just grins back at me, unfazed by my annoyance.

"He’s in the basement. You want me to take care of it, boss?" he asks, already knowing the answer but seeking confirmation, nonetheless.

I grunt in response, my mind clouding with dirty thoughts of the woman in front of me, thoughts that I know damn well I shouldn't entertain.

Enzo’s distraction is unwelcome, but I can't just push it aside like I want to.

Fuck.

I turn my gaze back to the woman in my arms. She's looking up at me with those blue eyes like she's already planning our damn wedding. I should say something and acknowledge her presence, but instead, I just turn away. I can't afford to get wrapped up in some bullshit tonight.

Without a second thought, I stride away toward the basement, leaving her behind without another glance.

Enzo falls into step beside me, and I try to focus on anything other than the persistent hard-on in my pants. But no matter how hard I try, her image keeps creeping back into my mind, those legs and that look in her eyes.

“Have Cal and his men make sure she isn't followed home, and then meet me in the basement,” I bark to Enzo. He nods in understanding, that crooked smile plastered on his face as he goes to carry out my order.

Why do I care if she gets home? She's a distraction I don’t need.

As Enzo disappears into the crowd, that cocky grin still lingering, I shake my head, forcing myself to push away thoughts of the woman on the dance floor. There's business to take care of—time to deal with Petra and his bullshit.

Petra proves to be nothing more than a waste of space and time. But watching Enzo toy with him for the past few hours is a twisted form of entertainment. The sick bastard gets off on torturing these scumbags, and Petra won't be breathing much longer. If I let Enzo have his way, the prick would already be dead, but I prefer he suffers a bit more.

A few soldiers enter the basement, ready to handle the cleanup.

“You think we should mail his fingers back to his boss? Send a little message?” Enzo asks, his eyes lighting up with a sadistic gleam.

I give him a slight nod in agreement. He's one sick fuck, but I can always count on him to get the job done.

Before we head up the stairs, Petra mumbles something incoherent.

“What did that motherfucker just say?” Enzo demands, turning back to watch Petra spit up blood and groan on the floor––smiling, if you can believe it. He won't live to see tomorrow, yet he's grinning like a Cheshire cat. Though, I can't see any teeth. They're either missing or covered in blood. I can't believe this prick thinks anything is funny right now.

“What's so fucking funny?” I roar as I stomp towards his pathetic body, lying in a pool of blood and piss on the concrete floor. More incomprehensible mumbling spills from his lips, but it's all gibberish to me.

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