The bass thrums through the walls like a heartbeat, pulsing with raw desire. Red and black lights flicker, illuminating bodies lost in pleasure.
"Welcome to the Den of Desires."
A place where fantasy meets forbidden pleasure.
At first, my feet refuse to move from the entrance, but I push forward, taking in the people around me.
On the left side of the club, a woman lays naked, tied, and blindfolded, her body trembling as a man holds a vibrator to her clit. She cries out, grinding against it.
Next to her, a glass-enclosed stage holds two men standing while a woman kneels between them. She takes one of them into her mouth, stroking the other, then switches.
To the right, another glass reveals a woman bent over, her hands pressed against the glass as if gripping for dear life. A man pounds into her from behind, her hair clinging to her sweat-dampened face.
Everywhere I turn, acts of raw sexual hunger play out. Over the music, the sounds of pleasure echo—the moans, the cries, the slapping of skin.
A week ago, I would have sworn on heaven and earth never to step foot in a place like this. But now, I have no choice.
I keep my head down, trying to make myself small and invisible. But, of course, life never goes the way I want.
"You look lost," a man steps in front of me.
"No, I'm good, thank you," I say quickly, sidestepping him.
"Come on, I can show you around. No need to be scared." He moves closer.
I raise my hand, waving behind him as if signaling to someone. When he turns to look, I slip past him only to collide with a hard chest.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't see you."
I step back, looking up into piercing gray eyes. Broad shoulders, neatly styled hair, a black button-down shirt, and an earpiece—he's either a security guard or a bodyguard. Either way, his tattoos and piercings are giving.
"How old are you?" he demands, his voice cold and harsh.
"I'm 23. They checked my ID at the entrance."
"Show me," he orders, like he doesn't believe a word I just said.
Sighing, I reach into my bag and pull out my ID, handing it to him.
He scans it for a moment, flicking his eyes between me and the card.
"Is something wrong?" I ask, crossing my arms. It's not like I gave him a fake ID.
"Yes. There is." His gaze hardens.
"What's wrong?"
"You don't belong here," he states, like it's the simplest thing in the world.
I snatch my ID back, stuffing it into my bag. "What do you mean I don't belong here?"
His eyes trail over me, from head to toe.
Okay, fine. Maybe I don't exactly fit in. My jeans, sweater, and sneakers scream amateur in a den of professionals. Every other woman here—whether she has a cock in her mouth, ass, or between her legs, or even the servers—is either naked or in lacy lingerie. I'm the only one fully covered.
Still, I lift my chin, refusing to shrink.
"I'm here to speak with someone," I say firmly.
"Who?"
"Matteo Moretti. The owner of this club."
His body goes rigid for a split second before he mutters, "You really don't want to see him."
"Yes, I do."
"You should turn around and leave. You don't belong here."
"Stop saying that."
"But you don't." He leans in slightly, his voice low. "Matteo ruins pretty things like you. So run."
Even though my stomach knots with unease, I square my shoulders. "I don't have a choice."
He exhales, eyes scanning me again, like he's trying to decide if I'm worth the warning. "Whatever you think you're here for, Matteo won't help you."
"If you're not going to tell me where he is, move out of my way."
His jaw ticks. Then, after a moment, he gestures down a dark hallway. "Fine. This way."
I follow him past the main area to a door marked VIP. He pushes it open, stepping aside so I can enter.
Inside, a stripper pole stands in the center of the dimly lit room. A woman grinds between two naked men, their bodies slick with sweat. In the far corner, a man lounges in an armchair, a glass of liquor in hand. His icy blue eyes flick toward the performers, watching them like a casual spectator.
One man lifts the woman, burying his face between her legs while the other drops to his knees, taking the first man's cock into his mouth. The sounds of moans and wet suction fill the air.
I force my gaze away from the scene, only to find Matteo Moretti staring straight at me.
"What do we have here?" He smirks, his eyes raking over me, undressing me with his gaze despite my layers.
"She says she wants to speak with you," the security guard—bodyguard?—grits out, clearly uneasy.
Matteo leans forward, sipping his drink. "Hmm… really?" His interest sharpens. "Tell me, dolce peccato (sweet sin), to what do I owe this pleasure?"
Words vanish from my brain. My tongue feels thick. "I… I…" Why is it so damn hard to form a simple sentence? "I need money. Stella sent me."
Matteo raises his glass. "And what is someone like you doing with a whore?"
I flinch at the word but steady myself. "Stella is my friend. I trust her."
Stella and I met at a cafe years ago after a mix-up with our coffee orders. One small interaction turned into exchanging numbers, then hanging out, then five years of friendship. I always sensed something off about her, but I never questioned it. Everyone has a past, right?
Matteo watches me for a moment, then stands. "Step into my office."
He ascends a few steps, holding the door open. I hesitate before following him inside, my hands gripping the hem of my sweater.
"That'll be all, Dante," Matteo says.
I glance back to see the bodyguard—Dante—standing in the doorway, his gray eyes flicking between us before stepping back allowing Matteo to shut the door with a soft click.
We're alone.
Matteo settles behind a mahogany desk, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt as he leans back. "What's your name?"
"Nina Bianchi."
"You want money," he says. "How much?"
"One million dollars."
He hums, tapping a finger against his glass. "Not much."
To him, maybe. To me, it's a fortune. A number so high I'd never reach it, no matter how many shifts I pick up. But my mother's hospital bills won't wait. I need this money.
"And how do you plan on paying me back?" he asks, studying me.
"I have a job," I say. "I'm a waitress. If I work three shifts a day, including weekends, I can pay you back in a year."
"What do you need the money for?"
"Does it matter? Do I have to answer?"
"If you're asking me for a million dollars, yes."
I exhale sharply. "My mother's medical bills."
His expression shifts slightly. "Are you like Stella?"
"No." I don't know why you called her a whore but I can be trusted.
His lips twitch with amusement. " I don't trust anyone dolce peccato. And you should learn that."
"Please," I whisper. "I have nowhere else to go."
His smirk fades. "I don't give my money to strangers." He pauses. "But… if you sign a contract with me, I might reconsider."