Page 3 of Sexted By a Stranger
Yes, I can't go down that road. What would Mom and Leon think if they knew? There had to be another way.
Back at the apartment, my key scraped too loudly in the lock, echoing in the dead silence of the hallway. I pushed open the door to the familiar smell of old furniture and lemon cleaner. Faded photos hung on the wall—back when Dad was still alive, Mom holding baby Leon, me with pigtails and a carefree smile.
These were the few bright spots in my hard life.
"God..."
I let out a long breath and carefully tucked away the two envelopes of cash. With both my body and mind pushed past their limits, I forced myself through a shower. Didn't even have the energy to turn on the lights.
I fumbled my way to the bed and collapsed into it, burying myself deep in the thin blanket that smelled faintly of discount detergent.
I closed my eyes, trying to empty my mind. But I couldn't stop thinking about that devastatingly handsome man.
He was branded into my memory. This strange feeling made me question myself over and over—why would I remember him? A man who'd watched me like that, in a place like that? Just as consciousness started to slip away into darkness, my phone screen suddenly lit up.
This late at night—was something wrong with Leon? Fear flooded through me, my heart seized in a vise.
I shot upright and grabbed the phone.
On the screen was a text from an unknown number. No greeting, no pleasantries.
Just one domineering line, dripping with possession and command: [I don't like you undressing in front of other men.]
Chapter 2
Luca
Connor was still running his mouth, every syllable about territory divisions and profit shares buzzing around like fucking flies. The air reeked of perfume mixed with alcohol, making my stomach turn. Even the air in this Irish prick's territory stank of something rotten.
"...so Mr. Bellomo, we take over operations for those Manhattan venues, split the profits seventy-thirty, and you sit back collecting your cut. Beautiful arrangement, wouldn't you say?" Connor leaned forward, his face plastered with that fake ass-kissing smile.
I picked up the crystal tumbler in front of me and leaned back, unconsciously tapping the glass. The soft tap-tap barely audible.
The long silence made Connor's fake smile start to crack around the edges.
Lennox stood like a shadow at my back, one step behind and to the side, completely still. But I knew every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like a bow drawn to breaking point, waiting forjust one signal from me to put an arrow straight through this chattering Irish fuck.
"Fifty-fifty," I spoke at last. "Or I send Ragnar and his boys to 'assist' with your operations. Pick one."
Connor's fake smile froze solid, a flash of viciousness flickering through his beady eyes. He forced out a dry laugh, his throat making this wheezing sound like a broken bellows. He was just opening his mouth to squeeze out some bullshit response when the stage lights suddenly focused.
A brilliant spotlight hit center stage.
And then time—or at least my perception of it—stopped dead.
Connor's mouth kept moving, but the sound came through muffled, like we were underwater. My gaze cut through the hazy smoke, the chaotic lights, the blurred figures, and locked onto the figure caught in that beam of light.
A girl.
Slender build, fragile as a flower stem. Wrapped in a deep green velvet outfit. The so-called costume was just a few scraps of fabric masquerading as art, barely covering the essentials while leaving expanses of silky skin exposed to countless hungry eyes. She stood there like a deer suddenly thrown to wolves under searchlights, her whole body rigid, even her fingertips trembling with tiny, uncontrollable shakes.
She moved stiffly to the pounding, provocative beat. Her dancing had zero technique—hell, it was almost laughable. Her long chestnut hair swung in panicked arcs with each graceless movement. Every turn, every lift of her arms, was completely disconnected from this den of sex and sin.
She wasn't dancing. She was enduring torture—humiliating, soul-crushing torture she had no choice but to complete.
But what really grabbed me by the throat were her eyes.
No seduction there. No invitation. Just light blazing from the depths of despair, fierce and almost tragic. Heavy shame threatened to drown her, but something sharper—defiance—held it back. Tears gathered in her eyes, catching the light.
