The clock behind the bar struck midnight, but Eva's pulse no longer cared about the time.
It beat to the rhythm of Dante Salvatore — slow, steady, dangerous.
From her position behind the marble counter, she moved fluidly, pouring drinks, keeping her expression soft but distant. A hundred customers swirled through Club Inferno, but only one of them seemed to drain the oxygen from the room when he entered.
Dante.
His gaze alone could gut a man. His smile could sign death warrants. And tonight, both were aimed squarely at her.
He had approached her twice already. Both times brief, both times charged. She had answered smoothly, never faltering, her cover flawless. Too flawless.
And now, as he stalked toward her again — silent, precise, predatory — her instincts screamed a warning.
He knows.
Not everything. But something. Enough to look twice.
"Eva."
His voice caressed her name like silk dragged over steel.
She turned to face him, her mask flawless. Polite. Curious. No fear.
"Yes, Mr. Salvatore?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, those silver-gray eyes scanned her — but not in the usual, leering way she was used to from powerful men. No, Dante analyzed. He dissected. His gaze skimmed her posture, her hands, her movements, as if he could peel away her skin and read the truth etched into her bones.
"You've been here… how long?" His tone was casual, but his stare sharp.
"A few weeks," she answered lightly. "New to the city. Needed work."
He hummed under his breath, as though weighing that answer in his mind. "Funny. You pour drinks like a professional, but stand like a soldier."
Her pulse stuttered. Too sharp. Too observant.
She let out a small laugh, shaking her head gently. "I took self-defense classes in college. Maybe I just stand straight."
Dante's lips twitched — almost a smile, but darker. "Maybe." He took a glass from the counter, rolling it between his long fingers. His knuckles bore faint scars. Hands that had fought. Killed. Commanded.
"You don't belong here, Eva." His words were low, deliberate. "This bar. These crowds. You're too careful. Too clean."
Her breath caught, but she forced a soft smile. "I don't see how that's a bad thing."
"It's not," Dante murmured, gaze never wavering. "It's intriguing."
He set the glass down and slid a small black card across the counter to her. Minimalist. His name embossed in silver.
Dante Salvatore
"Dinner. Tomorrow night. Private." His voice was quiet but commanding. "My driver will collect you."
She kept her fingers light as she touched the card. "Is this business or pleasure?"
His smile deepened — slow, dark, dangerous. "With me, Eva… it's always both."
Then, as quickly as he'd come, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Leaving her standing there — heart pounding, card burning in her palm, mind racing.
He doesn't know what I am.
But he knows I'm not who I say I am.
Dinner with the devil himself.
A trap she had no choice but to walk into.
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