I went to a club that was different from the one Rocco was in. No VIP balcony dripping gold. Just low red lights, sticky floors, and the kind of bass that vibrated straight through my empty cunt.
I walked in like I belonged there—tiny black dress riding high on my thighs, sheer stockings, heels that clicked like a challenge. Every head that turned felt like a small victory. I wasn’t the modest little fiancée anymore. I was the girl who had walked out of Rocco’s penthouse determined to give the only thing he still wanted to the first man who looked nothing like him.
I found him at the far end of the bar.
Older. Mid-fifties at least. Broad shoulders straining a black shirt, thick arms, chest that looked carved from something harder than the boys my age. Sharp jaw, silver threading the dar
