Beneath His Sin by Maria at Inkitt

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE — THE NIGHT SHE STEPPED INTO HIS WORLD

Amara Hale had never seen a building swallow the sky until she stood before DeLuca Club.

A black tower of glass and steel, its surface reflected the city’s neon pulse like a living creature. Music throbbed through the walls—heavy, dark, seductive. The line of people waiting to enter stretched around the block, all glittering in their finest clothes as if preparing to worship a god they’d never meet.

Amara clutched her worn handbag to her chest and whispered to herself, “Just one night, Amara. You can survive one night.”

Her stomach churned.

Not from fear of the club—but fear of the man who owned it.

Lorenzo DeLuca.

Even people who didn’t believe in monsters whispered his name as though saying it too loudly might summon him.

But monsters didn’t matter when rent was overdue.

She pulled in a breath, straightened the secondhand blouse she’d ironed three times that morning, and pushed through the employee entrance.

The hallway inside was dim, narrow, and lined with black marble. People moved with urgency—security guards with earpieces, bartenders with trays, waitresses in sleek black uniforms that hugged their curves. Everyone seemed to know exactly where to go.

Everyone except her.

Amara’s shoes—cheap black flats with a barely-there sole—made soft tapping sounds as she walked. She kept her chin up and her gaze steady. She hadn’t come from privilege, but she refused to look like she didn’t belong.

“New girl?” a voice called.

She turned to see a woman in her thirties wearing the club uniform with more elegance than seemed humanly possible. Her red lipstick was sharp enough to cut someone.

“Yes,” Amara said. “My name is—”

“Amara Hale.” The woman finished for her. “I’m Dana. Floor supervisor.” She handed Amara a uniform wrapped in plastic. “Get changed quickly. The night is already drowning us.”

Amara followed her into a staff room buzzing with activity. Lockers clanged open and closed, perfume and stress blending heavily in the air. She changed quickly, pulling on the fitted black dress with trembling hands. It hugged her slender body, emphasizing curves she usually kept hidden beneath loose clothing. Her reflection stared back from the mirror—big brown eyes, soft curls gathered in a low bun, and a face people often described as gentle.

Gentle didn't survive long in places like this.

She wasn’t sure she would, either.

Dana’s sharp eyes inspected her once she emerged. “You’ll do.” She handed Amara a tray. “Tonight will test you. DeLuca Club doesn’t tolerate mistakes, and neither does our owner.”

Amara swallowed. “I understand.”

Dana leaned slightly closer. “And one more thing. If Lorenzo DeLuca steps onto the floor, don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t look him in the eye. And whatever you do—don’t draw attention to yourself.”

A chill crawled down Amara’s spine. “Okay.”

With that, she was ushered into the main floor.

The music hit her first—bass vibrating through her bones. Lights danced across the dark room, painting faces in flashes of blue, gold, and scarlet. Wealth exuded from every corner—diamond watches, designer suits, dresses so expensive she didn’t dare imagine the price tag.

The club wasn’t merely exclusive.

It was a throne room.

And every person inside knew exactly who sat on the throne.

Amara forced her breathing to steady as she moved between tables, learning the rhythm of the floor. Her hands didn’t shake. Her smile didn’t falter. For a girl who’d weathered too many storms, this was just another wave.

“Two glasses of Moët at VIP Table Three!” a bartender shouted.

“Got it,” she called back, placing the glasses on her tray.

She approached the VIP section with careful steps. The VIP booths were elevated, surrounded by velvet ropes, guarded by men whose expressions were carved from stone. The men sitting inside wore arrogance like a second skin, and the women beside them dripped luxury.

Amara set the glasses down.

“Enjoy your drinks,” she said softly.

They barely acknowledged her.

Back and forth she moved—drinks, orders, smiles, polite nods. She lost track of the time and the pounding music, falling into a rhythm that numbed her nerves.

Then it happened.

A man bumped her shoulder, stumbling from too much alcohol. Her tray wobbled. She tried to steady it, but her fingers slipped.

Wine flew.

A splash of dark red hit the one suit she should never have been near—let alone stained.

Her breath stopped.

The club went still around her.

Slowly, with chilling precision, Lorenzo DeLuca turned.

He shouldn’t have been there. Owners rarely appeared on the floor unless something required their attention. But there he stood—tall, imposing, wearing a tailored black suit that was now marred by a crimson stain.

His eyes—cold, cutting, predator-sharp—lifted to meet hers.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t curse.

That would have been easier.

Instead, he walked toward her with a calmness that cracked her soul open. His presence alone was suffocating. Each step he took made her heart pound harder.

He stopped inches from her.

Up close, Lorenzo DeLuca was alarming. Handsome, yes, but in the way a storm was beautiful before it destroyed everything in its path. Sharp jawline. Dark hair swept back with ruthless precision. A gaze that could shatter glass.

“Do you know,” he said softly, “how many people have died for less?”

Her blood turned to ice.

“I— I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “It was an accident—”

“Accidents,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, “are simply carelessness dressed politely.”

She couldn’t look away. Her pulse hammered in her ears.

The entire club seemed to lean in, waiting.

She could feel her knees weaken, but she stood her ground.

She didn’t know whether it was courage—or foolishness.

Something flickered in his eyes when she didn’t crumble.

“Your name,” he demanded.

“Amara,” she breathed.

He repeated it under his breath, as if testing how it felt in his mouth. His jaw tightened, his posture straightening.

“Follow me.”

Her stomach dropped.

She followed him through the silent crowd, every step feeling like her last.

He led her upstairs to a private corridor, far from the pounding music. His office door clicked shut behind her, enclosing them in a world of shadows and danger.

He turned slowly, leaning against his desk, arms folded over his broad chest.

“Explain,” he said.

“I was passing through the crowd. Someone bumped me, and I— I lost balance. It wasn’t—”

His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask whether it was intentional. I asked you to explain.”

His tone was icy, but something glinted behind it.

Curiosity?

Interest?

He was studying her—not like she was an employee, but like she was a puzzle piece that didn't fit anywhere in his structured kingdom.

Amara swallowed hard. “I’m new. I underestimated how crowded the floor gets. I… I’ll do better.”

Most people stuttered before him. Most avoided his gaze, trembled visibly, begged for mercy.

But she stood there, voice steady despite the fear.

His silence stretched, heavy and crushing.

Then, he pushed off the desk and approached her—slowly, deliberately. Her breath hitched as he reached for her chin, tilting her face up. His touch was gentle, which somehow made it more terrifying.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said quietly.

“I am,” she whispered honestly. “But fear won’t help me survive this job.”

A dark, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve survived something far worse than me,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Her chest tightened. “Everyone has their battles.”

He let go of her, stepping back.

“Get back to work.”

Her mouth parted. “You’re not… firing me?”

“For spilling wine?” he said, amused. “No. I don’t waste good potential.”

Confusion swirled in her. “But everyone downstairs looked like—”

“Like I was going to kill you?” He shrugged. “Perhaps I should remind them I’m not an animal.”

He opened the office door, waiting.