Chapter 12 Lead The Way
Gianni's phone buzzed.
The moment shattered like glass. One second they were inches apart, Cedric on his knees and Gianni looking at him like he wanted to devour him, and the next Gianni was pulling away, fishing his phone from his pocket with an irritated expression that made him look almost human.
He glanced at the screen and his entire demeanor changed. The predatory heat drained from his face, replaced by something cold and focused. Business.
"Don't move," he said to Cedric, then answered in rapid Italian, his voice clipped and authoritative.
Cedric stayed on his knees, his heart still hammering, his cock still hard, feeling absolutely ridiculous. The spell was broken. Whatever had been building between them had evaporated the second that phone rang, and now he was just a half-naked idiot kneeling on an expensive carpet while a mob boss conducted business.
Gianni's voice was getting sharper, angrier. He switched to English mid-sentence. "I don't care what he said, you tell him if he touches anything in that warehouse before I get there, I'll personally..." He stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Twenty minutes. Do not let him leave."
He hung up and looked at Cedric, and something flickered across his face. Frustration, maybe. Or regret.
"Get dressed," Gianni said, his voice back to that controlled calm. "We're done here for tonight."
Cedric blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Get up, put your shirt on, and go back to work."
The whiplash was disorienting. Cedric's brain struggled to catch up, still fuzzy with arousal and fear and confusion. "But you just said..."
"I said get dressed." Gianni's tone left no room for argument. He was already moving toward the door, checking his watch, his mind clearly somewhere else entirely. "Alessandro will have your schedule for the rest of the week. You'll work your shifts, you'll keep your mouth shut about this conversation, and you'll wait for me to contact you about our arrangement."
"Wait, that's it?" Cedric scrambled to his feet, grabbing his shirt from the floor. "You drag me in here, get me on my knees, make me agree to God knows what, and now you're just, what, dismissing me?"
Gianni turned back, and there was a flash of amusement in his eyes. "Would you prefer I stay? Make you finish what we started?" He took a step closer, and Cedric's breath caught. "Because I promise you, Cedric, if I stay in this room with you for five more minutes, you won't be walking out of here the same person you walked in as."
The words sent a shiver down Cedric's spine, equal parts promise and threat.
"So yes," Gianni continued, his voice dropping lower. "I'm dismissing you. Before I do something we'll both regret. Or enjoy too much." His hand came up to Cedric's face one more time, thumb brushing across his swollen bottom lip. "Be a good boy and go back to work. I'll find you when I'm ready."
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Cedric alone in the room with his shirt unbuttoned and his head spinning.
"What the actual fuck," Cedric muttered to the empty air.
He finished buttoning his shirt with shaking hands, trying to make sense of what had just happened. One minute he'd been ready to, he didn't even know what he'd been ready to do. And now Gianni was gone, called away by some business emergency, and Cedric was supposed to just go back downstairs and serve drinks like nothing had happened?
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Marcus.
Where the hell are you? Check in. Now.
Shit. Cedric had completely forgotten about Marcus, about the mission, about everything except Gianni's hands on him and that commanding voice and...
Focus. He needed to focus.
He typed back quickly: Still at club. Everything fine. Gathering intel.
The response was immediate: You were supposed to check in an hour ago. What happened to the wire?
Shit. Yeah, so... About that... Will explain later.
Cedric, if you compromised the operation—
He shoved the phone back in his pocket without reading the rest. He couldn't deal with Marcus right now. Couldn't deal with the guilt or the lies or the fact that he'd just agreed to become some mob boss's kept boy for fifty thousand dollars.
Cedric straightened his shirt, ran his hands through his hair, and tried to look like someone who hadn't just been on his knees begging. Then he opened the door and stepped back into the hallway.
The music hit him immediately, bass pounding through the walls. The club was even more packed than before, bodies pressed together on the dance floor, the air thick with expensive perfume and sweat and money.
He made his way back toward the third floor, trying to blend in with the staff, trying to look normal.
"There you are!" Alessandro materialized out of nowhere, looking frantic. "Where have you been? Table nine needs service, table twelve is asking for you specifically, and the owner..." He stopped, peering at Cedric's face. "Are you okay? You look..."
"I'm fine," Cedric said quickly. "Just needed a break. Where's table nine?"
Alessandro stared at him for another second, then shrugged. "Corner booth. They're drinking the Macallan, so smile pretty and maybe they'll tip."
Cedric grabbed a tray and went back to work, moving on autopilot. Pour drinks. Smile. Dodge wandering hands. Collect tips. Don't think about Gianni's hands in your hair. Don't think about being on your knees. Don't think about the promise in his voice when he said I'll find you when I'm ready.
He was serving table twelve, three middle-aged men who were absolutely wasted and getting handsy, when he saw movement near the club entrance. Men in suits, moving with purpose.
They didn't look like guests at all. Security, maybe. Or cops.
Cedric's stomach dropped.
Then he saw them, a group of four guys he didn't recognize, but something about the way they moved, the way they scanned the crowd, made every instinct scream danger. They weren't here to party. They were here for something else.
One of them locked eyes with Cedric across the room, and recognition flashed across his face.
Oh fuck.
Cedric knew that look. He'd seen it before, in the alley behind the bar. These were debt collectors. Gianni's men. And they'd just spotted him.
The man said something to his companions and started moving toward the stairs, toward the third floor, toward Cedric.
Cedric's mind raced. He couldn't run, where would he even go? He couldn't hide either because they'd already seen him. And he definitely couldn't fight four armed men in the middle of a crowded club.
"Excuse me," one of the drunk businessmen at table twelve slurred, grabbing Cedric's wrist. "Hey, pretty boy, I'm talking to you!"
"Not now," Cedric yanked his arm free, his eyes still on the men approaching the stairs. They were getting closer. Thirty seconds, maybe, before they reached the third floor.
Think. Think!
The private room. Gianni's office. If he could get back there, maybe he could, what? Hide? Lock himself in? That was stupid. That was...
"Cedric Santos," a voice said behind him, accented and cold.
Cedric turned slowly. Two of the men had come up the back stairs. He was surrounded.
"You're coming with us," the first one said, his hand moving inside his jacket. "Boss wants to see you."
"I'm working," Cedric said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I can't just—"
"Now."
The hand inside the jacket shifted, and Cedric caught a glimpse of metal. A gun.
The club was too loud for anyone to notice. Too dark. Too crowded. If these guys wanted to drag him out of here, they could do it, and no one would even see.
Cedric's phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably Marcus again. Not that Marcus could help him now.
"Fine," Cedric said, setting down his tray. "Lead the way."