SINFUL RED

Seraphina

The red dress clings to every inch of me like it was stitched onto my skin. Silk, blood-colored, low in the back, the slit rising scandalously high on my thigh. My hair falls in blonde waves, my lips are painted the same sinful shade as my dress, and I’ve never felt so exposed in my life.

Alessio says he’s taking me to The Palermo tonight—his family’s club. It’s supposed to be an honor—a rite of passage. I’m the girlfriend of the heir. The woman he says he wants forever with.

But the stories I’ve heard? They don’t sound like fairy tales. They sound like confessions whispered in the dark—things people aren’t supposed to survive.

“Holy shit, girl,” Camilla smirks, sauntering into my room with her stilettos dangling from one hand, her hair wild and voluminous. “You look like something men start wars over.”

I force a breath, smoothing my hands down the silk. “Is it too much? Be honest.”

“It’s perfect.” Her grin widens, sharp and cat-like. “Alessio won’t know whether to take you out or lock you in a room. It’s about time they brought us to the infamous Palermo anyway. I heard rumors about the lower levels. VIP rooms, voyeur glass... dark, delicious shit.”

Camilla is dating Cosimo, Alessio’s cousin. She thrives on chaos.

I press my palm to my stomach, trying to quiet the butterflies turning into a storm. “His father might be there tonight.”

Camilla’s eyes flash. “The Don?”

I nod.

“Relax,” she says, offering a casual shrug that doesn’t match the sudden thrill in her eyes. “You’re sweet, you’re stunning, and you’re innocent. Exactly the kind of beautiful distraction men like him tolerate. Just smile and look pretty.”

Her tone shifts slightly on the last words, like there’s a darker truth hidden underneath.

The club is a cathedral of sin.

From the moment we step through the heavy, blacked-out doors, the air is thick with sex, expensive cigar smoke, and pure power. Alessio grips my hand tightly. Too tightly. Like he’s afraid I’ll run—or worse, like he knows exactly what he’s walking me into.

Men in tailored suits nod respectfully as we pass. Above us, naked women dance in suspended iron cages, twisting under deep red lights like they were born to tempt. Heavy, bass-driven music vibrates right through the floorboards, making my chest thud.

“Is it always like this?” I whisper, leaning into Alessio.

He glances around, a smug, comfortable smile on his face. “Just a regular Friday, baby. It’s a place to unwind.”

He guides me up the sweeping marble steps toward the VIP lounge. It’s a different world up here—dark leather booths, heavy velvet curtains that muffle the noise below, and low amber lighting. There are only a few men present, but they carry an aura that makes them feel like gods.

And at the center of them sits a man who makes the rest of the room fade into the background.

Emilio Palermo.

He doesn’t stand up immediately. He watches. His eyes are like polished obsidian—unmoving, heavy, studying me less like a guest and more like a threat. Or prey.

Finally, he rises.

“Seraphina,” Alessio says. His voice sounds a pitch higher, thinner than usual. “This is my father.”

Emilio steps forward with the slow, unhurried grace of a predator who knows nothing can escape him. Every eye in the lounge flicks toward us.

“So, my son finally brings you out of the shadows,” Emilio says. His voice is a low, gravelly baritone. Velvet wrapped around a blade. “He told me you were beautiful. The boy lacks vocabulary. He undersold you.”

He takes my hand.

He doesn’t kiss it. He doesn’t shake it. Instead, his large, calloused hand engulfs mine, and his thumb deliberately drags slowly across the sensitive skin of my wrist, right over my racing pulse.

“Magnificent,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto mine, dropping his voice so low it’s meant only for me. “Far too many women for a boy to handle.”

My body goes rigid, my heart hammering against my ribs. I yank my hand back a fraction too fast, forcing a brittle laugh to cover the panic. “It’s... It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Palermo.”

He tilts his head, his gaze devouring me from head to toe. “Don’t call me sir, Seraphina. Or Mr. Palermo. I reserve formal titles for the boardroom... and very different words for the bedroom.”

My breath hitches. My brain short-circuits.

Alessio lets out a nervous chuckle, completely missing the predatory look in his father’s eyes, and steers me toward the booth. “Let’s get a drink.”

Across from us, Camilla is already straddling Cosimo, her tongue down his throat. She waves a hand casually at me over his shoulder, completely unfazed that we are surrounded by men who could end lives with a simple nod.

Alessio sits beside me, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my shoulder. “What can I get you to drink, baby? White wine?”

“Whiskey,” I say, the word coming out sharper, darker than I intended. “Neat.”

He blinks, surprised, then nods. “Alright. I’ll grab it from the bar.” He steps away.

And then, the space beside me shifts.

Emilio slides into the booth. Closer than Alessio was. His thigh brushes against mine through the silk of my dress, and the contact feels like a jolt of pure electricity straight up my spine.

“A girl who drinks whiskey,” Emilio murmurs, staring ahead at the club but entirely focused on me. “You shouldn’t be left unattended in a place like this, carissima. Not when you dress like an invitation.”

I swallow hard, turning my head slowly to look at him. “An invitation to what? Your club?”

A slow smile touches his lips. It isn’t kind. It’s dangerous.

“No. An invitation to men who actually know what to do with a woman like you. Men who would teach you what it means to be worshipped, not just kept.”

My lips part, but the air catches in my throat.

“He doesn’t know how to touch you, does he?” Emilio asks, his voice dropping to a rough whisper as he leans closer. “He kisses you like a boy who’s terrified of breaking his favorite toy.”

“Alessio is good to me,” I snap softly, trying to sound defensive. But my voice trembles. It sounds weak, even to my own ears.

Emilio leans in until his breath brushes the shell of my ear. “Good is boring. Good doesn’t tear your soul open and make you beg for the pieces. You’re a Ferrari, little bird, and he’s driving you like a golf cart.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t move away from the intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne and tobacco.

“Your body is a terrible liar, Seraphina,” he whispers, his dark eyes dropping to my chest. “Look at you. Trapped. Tense. Your breath hitching... and your nipples cutting right through that expensive silk.”

My eyes widen, a hot blush rushing up my neck.

He lets out a low, wicked chuckle. “You’re reacting to the wrong Palermo. Tell me, are you soaking through those pretty little panties right now just listening to me say it?”

A tiny, desperate sound escapes the back of my throat. I try to turn my head away, but his hand shoots out, his strong fingers catching my chin, forcing my face back to his.

“Look at me,” he commands softly. “You feel that ache between your thighs? We both know that’s not for my son.”

I shake my head, my voice a broken whisper. “You’re insane.”

“No. I’m the only one in this room who’s awake. You’ve been sleepwalking.”

The moment Alessio appears with the glasses, Emilio’s hand drops so smoothly it’s as if it never happened. I sit frozen, a statue of ice and fire, as Alessio slides the whiskey in front of me and takes a heavy gulp of his own drink.

“Camilla wants to dance,” Cosimo says, sliding out of his booth and pulling a flushed Camilla with him. “Come on, cousin, let’s show them the floor.”

Alessio hesitates, looking down at me. “You want to go dance, baby?”

I nod quickly, desperate for oxygen. Desperate to escape the suffocating heat radiating from the man next to me. “Yes. Please.”

Camilla drags me out onto the crowded, pulsing dance floor. The strobes swirl above us like halos in hell. Alessio steps up behind me, his hands sliding around my waist, his hips pressing into my backside to the rhythm of the bass.

But my eyes don’t close. They find him.

Emilio.

He’s still sitting in the booth. Alone now. Watching. His drink is completely untouched on the table. His gaze is a dark, physical weight on me from across the room.

A sudden, wicked impulse sparks in my chest. I start to move more. Fluidly. Angling my body and pressing back into Alessio like I’m possessed. I reach down, grabbing Alessio’s hands and dragging them up my own ribcage, up my thighs, staring directly at Emilio the entire time to see what he’ll do.

Across the room, Emilio shifts forward in his seat. He rests one elbow on his knee, his mouth parting slightly. Very slowly, the tip of his tongue drags along the edge of his teeth, his eyes locked onto my throat like a wolf deciding where to bite.

A sharp, violent ache clenches deep between my legs.

I shouldn’t want this. It’s sick. It’s dangerous.

But God help me, I do.

Alessio presses a hot kiss to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, completely oblivious to the war being waged over his head. I pull him closer, but my eyes never break contact with the Don.

He owns me from across the room, and we both know it.

Camilla catches my eye over Cosimo’s shoulder, her jaw practically on the floor as she mouths, What the actual fuck is happening?

I can’t answer her.

Because across the lounge, Emilio finally lifts his glass. He takes one slow, deliberate sip, never breaking eye contact, and sets it back down. As he does, his lips move, shaping a single, silent word across the crowded room.

Mine.