Corrupting Lily

Chapter 3

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Lily

To say that I was relieved to be called downstairs was an understatement. Camille had entered the office minutes ago, beyond angry, and even if I wasn't the cause, it never ended well for me. As can be felt by the sting of my cheek, where her hand had slapped it hard just seconds ago. This was a first. Usually, she verbally abused me, never physically. However, I couldn't really say I was surprised. This is how things usually progressed. Except she wasn't apologizing afterward.

Basilio's tone conveyed urgency, meaning I didn't have time to check how bad the mark on my cheek was. Leaving the office, I brush the hair of my black bob-cut wig forward in hopes that it would cover any redness that might be there.

Entering the club, I look around, spotting Basilio at a private booth near the back. Approaching him, I notice the black-suited men from earlier dotted around the room, none of them paying attention to the strippers. Camille's word earlier floats through my mind. Mafia. My heart rate increases as my anxiety peaks.

As I reach the table, Basilio's eyes meet mine before drifting over to my cheek—anger flares in his gaze as he stands up, brushing the hair to the side.

"What the fuck happened to your face?" Basilio's harsh tone conveys his anger.

"I tripped," I lie, my gaze dropping to the floor. There was no way I would pin this on Camille. It was already bad when she was here, and Basilio wasn't around. Imagine if I admitted it was her.

"Do you always let your whore beat your staff?" The words themselves, while surprising, are not the reason I raise my eyes from the ground to see who has spoken them. It is the sound of them that has hooked my attention. While most men have a naturally deep voice, this man's voice was deeper and huskier than any I had heard before. One of those voices that, once you heard it, you could distinguish it from a million others. Every time. While the words were spoken casually and quietly, the space around them swam with command. Authority painted every letter and licked every vowel as it fell from his mouth.

My gaze meets with one that gives nothing away. The same man who took my breath away earlier and is stealing it again sits casually back in the booth. One arm rests over the backrest while the other is on the thigh of his leg, the movement of his tattooed index finger tapping rhythmically up and down on his knee drawing my attention.

He looks relaxed, but I can tell that if he needed to, he could be out of that seat and in front of me quicker than I could blink my eyes—no mean feat considering his size. My eyes travel his body, judging him as six foot four tall, at least two hundred and thirty pounds. Aside from his hands, his neck up to his jawline is tattooed, the ink disappearing into his black dress shirt. Black shirt, black ink, black hair, black stubble. This man is made of the shadows.

"Daisy." Basilio snaps my name, drawing my attention back to him. "Did Camille do this to you?" he asks, gently touching my face. The contrast between his touch and his tone confuses me. Is he cross with me or her?

I shake my head, not liking to lie verbally.

"You shouldn't lie il mio fiorellino. It will make your petals wilt." My eyes snap over to the man once again, his voice like a magnet. Italian. While his accent isn't heavy, when he speaks Italian, it is.

"Sit. Both of you." His eyes don't leave mine as his command is issued.

Basilio drops his hand from my cheek, sitting in the chair he had risen from. I look around the table, trying to decide where to sit. The man's scrutinizing gaze has me blushing, the heat in the club suddenly turning up a notch.

"Bring a chair." Again, with the commands. As I turn to get a chair, his voice halts me.

"Not you, il mio fiorellino," the mysterious man says, his gaze drifting from me over to Camille, whom I hadn't noticed standing off to the side of the booth. Clearly eavesdropping.

"You. Now." Camille flushes, anger again rising as she looks from the man to me to Basilio. Basilio glares at her, inclining his head, before she walks to the other booth and starts dragging a chair over, which she unceremoniously thuds down behind me.

"Now go upstairs, and don't come down until Basilio tells you to." There is a warning in the look the man gives Camille, which she reads as the blood drains from her face, fear rushing her footsteps to escape.

"Now. Where were we. Introductions." The man stares at Basilio, his previous expression replaced by a look of boredom. I sit down, nervously wringing out my hands in my lap.

"Daisy, this is my cousin, Dominico Sante. Dominico, this is Daisy." I look between Basilio and Dominico as he introduces us. They look nothing alike.

"Just Daisy?" This question from the man sitting to the left of Dominico. This guy scares me the most. It's not just the scar marring his cheek and the fact that he looks like a Viking but also how he looks at me. Like I am a threat that needs to be neutralized.

"You look familiar," the Viking guy says, his head tilting to the side as he scrutinizes me. My heart rate speeds up, my hands becoming clammy as I silently pray this wig does its job by making me look like someone else.

"That is Nero," Basilio says beside me, identifying the scary-looking man. "And that is Dante," he says, pointing to the man on the other side of Dominico, currently slapping Angelique's ass while looking me dead in the eyes as he sends her away.

"Yes, it's just Daisy," I answer, looking over at Nero, who sits back in his seat, his hand stroking his long beard as he continues studying me. Breaking eye contact, I glance at Basilio for support and direction in this situation. He looks over at me, reassuringly smiling before looking at Dominico, all warmth fading.

Silence ensues while Dominico assesses me. Usually, I would avoid direct eye contact, thinking it made me less noticeable. With this man, I can't help but look back at him. He is exceptionally intriguing. And handsome. Not in the model way that Basilio is, but in a highly primal, rugged, bad-to-the-bone way. Handsome is the wrong word. Sexy. Hot. Delicious. These are probably better suited. He is truly an alpha male. And yet, when he arrived earlier, instead of having a complementary swarm of women dancing on his lap or doing more, he refused the offer. Their dismay was voiced amongst them when I passed them changing shifts earlier with Rosy. I could understand why.

Quirking my head to the side, I wonder what kind of man he is. Is he really a part of the mafia? Perhaps he just owns a strip club like Basilio. His Armani suit and Rolex watch alone tell me he is well off, but then so is Basilio. And why does he have these two guys with him? Maybe he is famous, and these are his bodyguards? I look around, once again noticing the men dotted around the room.

"Are you famous or something?" The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them, a blush creeping up my cheeks.

Dominico erupts with a deep chuckle, one I would like to bottle and keep so that I can open it in the privacy of my apartment at night when I am alone and relive the shiver it sends down my spine.

His gaze remains on me while his words are directed at Basilio.

"Ahhh, cousin, I can now see why..." Dominico's cryptic words hang in the air as I look at Basilio, his face paling slightly. The words appear to mean more to him than to me.

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