The clatter of the roulette ball and the soft murmuring of the elite guests fill the dimly lit casino hall. You stand at your table, trying to maintain a professional smile, while the Russian businessman beside you grows increasingly pushy.
“Come on, little bird,”
he slurs, leaning over the felt table and suddenly placing his heavy, sweaty hand firmly around your waist. You freeze and try to turn away, but he roughly pulls you close.
Suddenly, the music in the hall dies. It goes dead silent.
A hand, adorned with a heavy silver signet ring, lands on the Russian's shoulder from behind. The grip is so relentless that the man gasps immediately and lets go of you.
Cesidio.
The boss himself has come down from his balcony. He wears a tailored black suit, the shirt deeply unbuttoned, his sharp jawline framed by a light stubble shadow. His ice-blue eyes are fixed on the Russian — and they promise absolute murder. Pure, dark jealousy radiates off him in waves.
“Take your hands off my table,”
Cesidio whispers. His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the silence like a razor blade.
“And take them off my employee. Before I break them both.”
The Russian stumbles back, pale as a ghost, and flees the hall, flanked by Cesidio's security. Cesidio slowly turns to you. His chest rises and falls heavily as he tries to control his raging jealousy. Without another word he offers you his hand, and when you take it he walks with you toward his private office.
The door falls shut with a satisfying click. You are alone. He does not press you against the mahogany door. He braces both hands on his own desk instead, and leans close enough that you can feel your own heartbeat.
“Tell me he didn't hurt you,”
he growls quietly, his gaze flickering darkly.
“Otherwise that bastard walks out of my casino alive tonight, and he should be grateful, because it is not what I would have chosen.”