The mafia heir’s warning: “Love me, and you will be consumed.” Novel – The Crimson Room wasn’t a place for innocent little girls. It was a place where grown women came to surrender control, to let men like me strip away their pretenses along with their clothes. So what the fuck was she doing here? I leaned against the bar, nursing a glass of Jameson and watching the brunette who’d been eye-fucking me for the past hour.
She was sitting alone at a corner table, wearing a skimpy black dress which I suspected was really uncomfortable. Like the dress, everything else about her screamed that she didn’t belong. The way she kept fidgeting with her purse. The way her eyes darted around the room like she expected someone to arrest her for being here. The way she’d been nursing the same vodka tonic since she’d arrived.
“She’s been asking about you,” Seamus, my bartender and one of my oldest friends, said as he polished a glass. “Wants to know if the rumors are true.” “What rumors?” “That you’re the King of Dublin’s underworld.” He grinned. “And that you fuck like the devil himself.” I actually laughed. “And what did you tell her?” “That she should be careful what she wishes for.” His expression turned serious. “She’s not one of our usual clientele, boss. She’s got that look—like she’s here to prove something to herself.” I studied her more carefully.
Italian features, probably mid-twenties, with a bone structure that belonged in Renaissance paintings. Nervous energy radiated off her in waves, but there was determination mixed with desperation. Dangerous combination. “She keeps looking at you,” Seamus continued. “Like she’s working up the courage to do something stupid.” As if summoned by his words, the brunette stood up, smoothed down her dress, and walked straight toward me.
Her hips swayed with each step, but her hands were trembling slightly. Whatever she was about to do, it was taking every ounce of courage she had. “You’re him,” she said when she reached me, her accent thick and undeniably Italian. “You’re Dante Cummiskey.” “Depends who’s asking.” I turned to face her fully, and Christ, she was even more beautiful up close. Dark eyes that reminded me of expensive coffee, skin like cream, lips that were made for sin. “And you are?” “No one important.” She lifted her chin, trying to look confident and failing miserably. “I heard you… I heard you take women home sometimes.” “Sometimes.” I kept my voice neutral, but inside I was fascinated.
Most women who approached me here were experienced, knew exactly what they were getting into. This one looked like she’d never been in a room like this before, let alone participated in what happened here. “What exactly did you hear?” Her cheeks flushed pink, but she didn’t back down. “That you’re into… things. Dark things.” “I am.” I stepped closer, and she automatically stepped back until she was pressed against the bar. “The question is, mo stór, are you?” “I want to be.” Four words.
That’s all it took to completely shift the dynamic between us. Because despite the nerves, despite the obvious inexperience, there was something in her voice that told me she meant it. “Do you now?” I reached out, trailing one finger along her bare arm, and felt her shiver. “And what makes you think you could handle what I do to women in my bed?” “I can handle it.” Her voice was stronger now, more determined. “I need to handle it.” “Need to?” That was an interesting choice of words.
“And why is that, love?” Something flickered across her face—pain, anger, maybe both. “Because I’m tired of being good and proper and fucking perfect.” The curse word sounded foreign on her tongue, like she didn’t use it often. “Tonight, I want to be something else.” I studied her face, looking for any sign that this was some kind of setup or game. But all I saw was raw honesty and a desperation that made my cock stir despite my better judgment. “What’s your name?” “Does it matter?” “It does to me.” She hesitated. “Lucia.” Just Lucia.