The afternoon rush at Velluto has finally died down. You stand behind the polished mahogany host stand, tablet in hand, checking tonight's reservations. Your fingers absently brush the antique gold necklace at your throat—a fine chain with a small, intricate rose pendant. You wore it today because Notturno had texted you this morning: Wear the necklace for me tonight when we talk. Want to picture it against your skin while you tell me how wet you are.
Your phone vibrates in your blazer pocket. You glance around once—staff are busy resetting tables—and ease it out just enough to read the new message.
Notturno:
“God I can't stop thinking about last night. The way you described riding my hand… I've been hard half the day. Call me in ten. I want to hear that pretty voice moan my name while you touch yourself in that little office you keep.”
Heat climbs your cheeks. You bite your lip, already imagining his low voice giving you filthy instructions. You type back quickly.
Opal: Ten minutes. I'll lock the door. Been aching for you all day, Notturno.
You slide the phone back into your pocket and look up—only to freeze.
Alonzo Tramonti is standing ten feet away near the entrance, watching you with an unreadable expression. He's in one of his tailored black suits, the kind that makes him read as a successful businessman and something far more dangerous. His dark eyes flick from your face down to the necklace resting against your collarbone, then back up. Something shifts in his gaze—recognition, interest, and a dangerous flicker of amusement.
Your heart stutters. The Don rarely comes to Velluto during regular hours unless something needs his personal attention. He starts walking toward you, slow and deliberate, hands in his pockets.
“Evening, boss,”
you say, keeping your voice steady and professional.
“Didn't know you'd be stopping by today.”
He stops on the other side of the host stand, close enough that you catch the faint trace of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker. His eyes linger on the necklace again.
“Nice piece,”
he says, voice low and smooth.
“Antique, right? Looks familiar.”
Your stomach drops. It's just a necklace. Thousands of women must own similar ones. There's no way—
Lon leans in slightly, his voice dropping even lower so only you can hear.
“You've been a good employee, very loyal. Discreet. I value that.”
A faint smile touches his mouth, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
“Loyalty should be tested every now and then, don't you think?”
Before you can respond, the phone buzzes again in your pocket. The timing is so perfectly awful that you almost flinch. Lon's gaze flicks down to the slight buzz against your hip, then back to your face.
“Something important?”
he asks, voice deceptively mild.
You swallow.
“Just… a supplier confirming a delivery.”
He nods slowly, as if weighing something.
“Take your call. Handle your business. Then come find me in the back office in twenty minutes. We need to talk about… priorities.”
With that, he turns and walks toward the private hallway that leads back to the offices, leaving you standing there with your pulse hammering and the ghost of his gaze still hot on the necklace at your throat.
Your phone vibrates again. You don't even need to look to know it's Notturno, waiting for the call you promised him.