Page 13 of Defying Love

Chapter Nine

Alexa

Iglided, red lipstick a bold slash of defiance. Each step was measured, my posture poised as I balanced the tray of smoky bourbon glasses with practiced ease. But beneath that veneer of calm professionalism, my pulse thrummed erratically. Dominic Gambino's gaze seared into my back like a phantom touch, its intensity palpable even without direct eye contact.

I approached, movements fluid and deliberate, yet my mind was a tempestuous sea of doubts and yearnings. The weight of his stare, dark and penetrating, tracing the contours of my body was electrifying. It whispered promises of danger and desire, wrapping around my senses, an invisible tether pulling me toward him despite myself.

My hands remained steady as I distributed the drinks, but inside, my heart waged a silent war. The 'good girl' from a small town, whose dreams were tinged with innocence, now danced on the edge of an abyss that beckoned with velvet darkness. Dominic was the embodiment of that abyss—the powerful, enigmatic man who could unravel me with a mere glance. What could he possibly see in me? I was an open book of earnest smiles and hopeful whispers in a world where such things were currency for the foolish.

As I set down the last glass, my eyes dared to meet his for a fleeting moment. In those dark pools, I searched for a sign, something that might betray his thoughts. But there was only the inscrutable mask of the mafia prince, his lips curved in a faint, knowing smirk that offered no answers, only deepened the mystery.

Retreating from the table, my breath caught in my throat. I felt the draw of him, magnetic and undeniable, yet feared what surrendering to that pull might mean. I was a moth to his flame—captivated, consumed, compelled—and it terrified me just as much as it thrilled me. Would being engulfed by his fire leave me reborn or reduced to ashes? I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.

"Over here, sweetheart," the man beckoned with a crooked finger, his voice a coarse demand wrapped in faux charm.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, steeling myself against the discomfort that crawled beneath my skin. With each step toward the table, I fortified the walls around my gentle nature, reminding myself that this was just another test of my resolve. My red lipstick—a bold contrast to the vulnerability I felt—remained undisturbed as I approached, a silent armor against the unsettling attention.

"Can I get you anything else?" My words came out steady, though inside, the tremors of unease threatened to betray my composure.

"Actually, yes." The man's hand shot out like a viper, seizing my wrist with a bruising grip that belied his casual tone. Before I could react, he yanked me forward, pulling me down onto his lap. The contact sent a jolt of alarm through my body, and my heart hammered against my rib cage like a bird desperate for escape.

"Isn't this cozy?" he jeered, his hot breath fanning across my ear, reeking of alcohol and entitlement.

Fear knotted in my stomach, but I couldn't afford to let it consume me. Not here, not now. I focused on the cool touch of the glass I still held in my other hand, a lifeline to the role I had to play. With every fiber of strength I possessed, I fought to maintain the calm exterior of the poised waitress, while inside, my inner turmoil churned like a stormy sea.

"Please, let go," I whispered, conflicting with the assertiveness I aimed to project. My plea went unnoticed—or perhaps ignored—as the man tightened his hold, a clear message that he wasn't finished with me yet.

I was like an unwilling marionette, strings pulled by the insidious hands of power and lust that gripped my wrist with iron resolve. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of musk and alcohol, and it pressed down on me with the weight of the uncomfortable silence.

The heat radiating from the man’s body made my skin crawl. His breath was a whisper of danger at the nape of my neck. Each beat of the muffled bass that vibrated through the club's floorboards seemed to echo the erratic tempo of my heart—a staccato rhythm that cried out for release from the threatening embrace.

With a deep breath that I hoped would steel my nerves, I summoned every ounce of professionalism I had left. My movements were deliberate, calculated to fulfill the request without inviting further intimacy. I shifted slightly, feeling the coarse fabric of the man's trousers against my thighs, reminding myself this was just another part of the job. A performance.

My body swayed to the music, a dance of necessity rather than desire. I kept my eyes fixed on a point over the man's shoulder, detached from the reality of his gaze tracing the contour of my form. I moved with a grace that belied my inner turmoil, as he took the clip out of my hair and let my soft waves brush against his cheek, feigning a confidence I did not feel.

Each gyration was a reluctant concession, a silent plea for the song to end. I was a prisoner within my own flesh, caught in the dichotomy of needing to appease yet yearning to flee. The paradox of my circumstance played out in the fluidity with which I navigated the ordeal, the resilience of my spirit clashing with the fragility of the moment.

I continued my forced performance. Dark eyes, clouded with lust and liquor, followed every dip and sway of my body. I could feel their gazes upon me like the touch of unwelcome hands, clawing at the edges of my soul.

Time seemed to stretch and contort around me, each second bloated with the weight of hungry stares. The men at the table were a silent jury, their verdicts unspoken yet palpable in the charged atmosphere. Their anticipation was a tangible thing, thick and suffocating; it was the air before a storm, laden with the promise of unleashed desires.

My mind clawed for detachment, desperate to erect a barrier between my spirit and the role I was compelled to play. I envisioned myself elsewhere—anywhere—as my hips continued to move. With each undulation, I retreated further into the sanctuary of my thoughts, clinging to the fragments of my integrity that seemed so at odds with the persona I projected.

Memories of my small-town innocence flashed before my eyes. I imagined the warm embrace of my mother, the comforting scent of home-cooked meals, anything to anchor me to the person I truly was beneath the makeup and the facade.

"Good girl," one of the men murmured, his voice a dark ribbon winding through the smoky air.

My stomach clenched, but I gave no outward sign of the revulsion that clawed up my throat. As the song crawled to its end, I allowed the final notes to carry away the last vestiges of the moment. I stepped back, movements automatic, as if I were a marionette whose strings had been cut. My escape was a quiet rebellion, a silent assertion that they could claim my time and my service, but never my essence.

"Hey, sweetheart," the man who had ensnared me moments ago called out, his words slithering through the air with a possessive edge. "That was quite the show you put on. Worth every damn penny."

His companions erupted in a chorus of snickers and approving nods. The crude satisfaction in their faces twisted my stomach into knots. I forced a smile, one that didn't quite reach my eyes, trained to maintain the veneer of hospitality no matter the cost.

"Can I get you anything else?" My voice held a professional lilt, betraying none of the revulsion that clawed at my insides.

"Another round for us," he replied, waving an empty glass in the air. "And keep the change—you've earned it."

As I nodded and turned to fulfill the order, the weight of his lingering gaze was a tangible reminder of the line I'd been compelled to cross. My pulse thrummed, each beat a reminder of my vulnerability in this place where power was currency, and I was little more than a commodity.

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