Dolcezza

Copyright © 2025 by T.K Wright

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

...

Isabella Ramirez

The last thing she remembered was the fire.

Bright red and orange flames danced wildly in the night, swallowing the walls of her childhood. Smoke thick in the air, stinging her lungs, her tiny body trembling in confusion and fear.

“No! Please, I want to go home! Where’s Lio? Mommy? Daddy?”

“Shut up, you stupid little girl.”

The man’s voice was like gravel and acid. “Mommy and Daddy don’t want you. That’s why you’re here. They got tired of you. Now behave… or you’ll be punished.”

She wept, her eight-year-old heart cracking at his cruel words. He had to be lying.

Her parents wouldn’t leave her. They couldn’t.

And Lio, her big brother, must be looking for her. She clung to that hope like a lifeline in a storm.

....

Thirteen years later...



The club is a world all its own.

Velvet shadows and gold accents wrap the room in sin and seduction. Crystal chandeliers sparkle above the main stage, casting fractured rainbows over faces brimming with lust and longing. The music pulses like a heartbeat through the walls, and you can almost smell the desperation in the air.

No one comes to The Devil’s Playground with noble intentions, and none of us works here out of choice. We are all just trying not to starve.

“Coming up next, we have our one and only fiery Latina, Caramel CANDY!”

That is my cue.

A flutter of nerves hits, like always. A year in, and it still feels unreal.

“Get it together, Isabella. Get it together.”

Chest out, hips back. Walk.

Before I step out of the wings, I check my reflection in the side mirror. I pat a thick layer of silver body glitter over my left ribs and the curve of my hip, carefully concealing the faint, swirling burn scars left behind from the fire. Under the heavy shimmer of the stage lights, the ruined skin disappears, leaving only the illusion of a flawless dancer.

I fix my glittering mask, the one that keeps my secrets safe, and step into the spotlight. My body moves on instinct, muscle memory, and pure rhythm. The crowd’s roar fades as the first notes of my song fill the air, and I become her.

He sang a song when he did it.

He was cold and unforgiving...

I let the music wash over me. My hips rolled. My legs stretched long and slow. Each twist of my body told a story I couldn’t speak.

In the night, she hears them calling

In the night, she’s dancing to relieve the pain

But she’ll never walk away

And then I see them, those brown eyes.

They pierce through the crowd like a flame in fog. Warm yet unreadable. Rich like aged whiskey, but with an ache that makes something in my chest twist. My secret admirer. He never misses a show. And when he watches me dance, it feels like the world falls away.

He is mysterious, beautiful, and dangerous.

They look like they have seen too much and loved too hard. Lost too deeply.

They make me feel seen and invisible all at once.

This dance, it is for you, I think as I twirl toward the pole.

Dollar bills and tears fall down her face

But she’ll never walk away

I don’t think you understand.

I wrap myself around the polished metal, letting gravity and grace carry me. My muscles flex, glitter shimmers, and sweat trails along my spine. I feel powerful, free, and completely whole, if only for three minutes.

When the music fades, I am breathless. The crowd screams my name, and bills rain down around me like confetti. I smile, my heart racing.

But when I look back toward his usual spot, he is already gone.

“You were amazing, Candy,” Derek, our club manager, grins, handing me a tequila shot.

“Thanks, Dee,” I say, flashing a quick smile. “Let me freshen up before I start table duty.”

The shower in Derek’s office is tiny but clean. I turn the handle all the way to cold, letting the icy spray hit my skin, washing away the glitter, the sweat, and the temporary illusion of Caramel Candy. As the water runs over my body, tracing the faint, bumpy ridges of the old burn scars on my side, I stare at the drain.

I barely remember my real childhood anymore. The early years are just a dusty collage of faces and pain. The nuns who raised me filled in the blanks with made-up names and stern lessons. They decided on Isabella Ramirez, which has a nice ring to it, is Mexican enough to fit in, and is generic enough not to be missed.

I am twenty-one now, working as an exotic dancer slash waitress at one of the city’s most exclusive clubs. I found this place when I was starving, alone, and desperate. Derek saw my face and hired me on the spot. I waited tables until I turned of age, and then the real money began. But I have my limits. No private dances, and no backroom favours. I am not judging anyone; I just know what I can live with.

When I emerge from the bathroom, there it is again, a fresh bouquet resting on the desk.

This time, they are white orchids.

They are delicate and elegant, twined with rolled-up one-hundred-dollar bills like paper petals. There is easily at least one thousand dollars’ worth of currency woven into the stems.

And, as always, the same small card lies in the centre.

Dolcezza.

Signed, V.

My breath catches. He has never sent this much before.

Gratitude should be the obvious reaction, but something about it always leaves a knot in my stomach. Like I am a pawn being moved in a game I do not know I am playing.

I change into my waitress gear, which is tight black denim shorts, high-heeled boots, and a fitted shirt with the club logo. No matter what I wear, my hips and ass do the advertising. Believe me, I have tried to hide them.

Downstairs, I tie on my apron and grab my pad. The usual crowd is in full swing. Men leer. Women glare. The energy is thick with jealousy, greed, and aching insecurity.

I see it all.

The woman is clinging to a man who hits her. The girl is addicted to something stronger than hope. The mother has three jobs and no time. All of us are wearing masks, some just glitterier than others.

I am halfway through my shift when I see her.

Ms. Gizzel.

Former international dancer turned boss from hell, Botox and bitterness, with a side of vicious perfectionism.

“Candy,” she drawls, her voice like sandpaper. “Just the girl I have been looking for.”

“Hello, Ms. Gizzel. You look radiant tonight.”

Total lie. Her makeup could scare children. But I value my life.

“You would too if you showed more skin. And that lipstick? Try red sometime.”

I smile through clenched teeth. “There is a gentleman at Table 62 who wants a word with you,” she added, her lips curling into a knowing, secretive smirk. “And no, you uptight prude, he does not want a dance. He asked specifically for Caramel Candy. It is the same high roller who sends those expensive orchids to your dressing room every other night.”

Table 62.

VVIP.

Only the kind of men who wipe with silk and piss champagne sit there.

I weave through the crowd, past the grinding bodies, the plastic smiles, the desperation. The girls at the elite tables clutch their men tighter when they see me, as if afraid I might steal them with a glance. If only they knew, I have no interest in this world. My escape plan has a deadline.

And then, I reach it. Table 62.

My breath catches.

Him.

Those brown eyes.

My mysterious admirer.

Only now, he is not watching from the shadows.

He is waiting.