The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that made Raven's skin prickle. She was alone with him now. No music. No lights. No audience.
Just her. And Dante Moretti.
The most dangerous man in the city.
He didn't say a word as he circled her like a predator studying prey. Silent. Calculating. His polished shoes made no sound against the dark marble floor, and yet she could feel every step like a thunderclap in her bones.
"You don't belong here," he murmured finally, stopping behind her. His voice brushed against the back of her neck like a cold wind.
Raven didn't turn around.
"I work here, don't I?"
"No," he said simply. "You hide here."
Her breath caught in her throat. But she didn't flinch.
He was testing her. Watching her for cracks. Most men wanted her body. Dante wanted to break her mind.
She turned slowly to face him. "Maybe I just enjoy dancing."
"You're a terrible liar," he said, stepping into her space until she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. "You move like someone trained to seduce, but your eyes stay cold. Detached. Calculating."
His gaze slid lower, pausing on her bare stomach, the curve of her hips, the inked raven on her ribcage.
"You don't dance to be seen. You dance to distract."
"And if I do?" she asked, lifting her chin. "What exactly do you think I'm hiding?"
Dante smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made men confess sins they hadn't committed.
"That's what I intend to find out."
Raven felt the heat rise in her throat, not from fear—but from the pull he had over her. It was maddening, unnatural. No man had ever made her feel this…unsteady.
"You asked for a private show," she said, trying to steer the conversation away from herself. "Isn't this what you wanted?"
"What I want," he said, stepping even closer, "is for you to take that mouthful of defiance and show me what it looks like when you surrender."
Raven's stomach twisted, torn between terror and temptation.
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.
"Strip. Slowly."
Her breath hitched.
She could say no.
She should say no.
But her body wasn't listening. Not when his voice wrapped around her like silk soaked in poison.
She slid her hands up her sides and gripped the straps of her bralette. The soft material fell to the floor without a sound. Next came the thong—she turned as she peeled it down, giving him her back, showing him control in every movement.
She wasn't some desperate girl begging for attention. She was fire dressed in flesh. And she wouldn't let him forget it.
When she faced him again, fully bare, he hadn't moved an inch. But his gaze—dark, hungry—raked over her like smoke.
"You're beautiful," he said softly. "And dangerous. That's a rare combination."
She raised a brow. "Afraid I might bite?"
"No," he said, voice sharp as a blade. "I'm afraid I'll like it."
He walked to the chair and sat, legs wide, commanding her with his silence. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he pointed to the floor between his knees.
"Come here."
Raven hesitated, just for a second. But a second was too long.
"You work in my club. Under my roof. That means you follow my rules, little dancer," he said, voice low and unyielding. "Or you disappear."
She stepped forward, heart pounding. She wasn't sure what scared her more—the threat in his voice, or the wicked promise beneath it.
She stopped inches from his knees, and he reached out to touch her hip. The warmth of his palm shocked her. It wasn't rough like she expected. It was possessive. Almost gentle.
"Sit."
"What?"
"On my lap."
She paused. He raised a brow.
Raven sat, slowly, straddling him. Her bare thighs brushed against the soft fabric of his suit pants. Her arms hovered at her sides, unsure of where to rest.
His hands came up, cupping her waist. "Relax."
Impossible.
He didn't grope. Didn't rush. He just looked at her, as if memorizing the shape of her face, the slope of her neck, the truth in her silence.
"You're not like the others," he said. "You don't belong in this club."
She forced a smile. "Maybe I like being different."
"No," he whispered. "You're hiding. From someone. Or something."
His hand moved to her lower back, pulling her a fraction closer. Not enough to scare her. Just enough to feel her heartbeat through her skin.
"Who are you really, Raven?" he asked.
Her smile slipped.
"I'm a dancer," she said carefully. "That's all."
He stared at her for a long time, his jaw tight.
Then he leaned forward, his mouth brushing her ear.
"If you lie to me again," he whispered, "I'll punish you for it."
She stiffened.
A moment later, he released her, and the spell shattered.
"You can get dressed now."
Raven rose, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed.
She picked up her clothes in silence and turned her back to him as she dressed. When she turned around, he was still watching her, expression unreadable.
"Come back tomorrow night," he said. "Same time. No stage. No crowd."
She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off.
"That wasn't a request."
She clenched her jaw. "What if I don't want to?"
"Then I'll assume you have something to hide."
And just like that, she realized she had just walked into a cage. One she couldn't escape. One lined not with bars, but with velvet, whispers, and power.
He didn't want her body.
He wanted her secrets.
And God help her, she was running out of places to bury them.
🖤 Backstage – Minutes LaterRaven slammed the locker door shut, her hands still shaking. She barely registered the chatter of the other dancers as they changed costumes, laughed, powdered their faces.
"Yo, Raven." It was Nikki, her friend and the only other dancer who didn't flirt with death nightly.
"You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
Raven forced a shaky laugh. "Something like that."
Nikki narrowed her eyes. "Let me guess…VIP request?"
Raven didn't answer.
Nikki lowered her voice. "Was it him?"
Raven froze.
"You've heard stories, haven't you?" Nikki whispered. "They say the ones he touches… disappear."
"Maybe that's the dream," Raven said bitterly. "To disappear."
Nikki stared at her, confused. "Girl, don't get poetic. Just get the hell out if you can."
Raven wanted to say I can't.
Because she had a mission.
One Dante Moretti couldn't discover. Not yet.
She tucked the small flash drive deeper into her boot, beneath the false sole. A list of names, transactions, blood-soaked deals.
Evidence.
If Dante ever found out she was working undercover for someone even worse?
She wouldn't just disappear.
She'd die.
And this time, no amount of dancing would save her.