Chapter 12 12
Bridget
Rafaelle is already there when I arrive, relaxed and confident as always, with a girl standing beside him. He introduces her as his sister, Seraphina, and the resemblance is subtle but unmistakable in the sharpness of her gaze and the effortless way she carries herself. She has dark brown hair that falls smoothly over her shoulders, hazel eyes that seem to catch every flicker of light in the room, and a diamond shaped face framed by long, elegant brows. Her body is well toned, the kind that speaks of discipline and confidence, and the dark green dress she is wearing fits her perfectly, hugging her curves without trying too hard.
The VIP lounge hums with a low, intoxicating energy. Purple and pink neon lights glow against black walls, reflecting off polished glass and leather couches. The bass from the club below vibrates through the floor, muffled but constant, like a heartbeat. A private bar gleams nearby, and the air smells faintly of alcohol, perfume, and something electric. This place feels expensive, untouchable, far from the life I can actually afford, yet here I am, thanks to Rafaelle.
“I love your dress, you look so sexy,” Seraphina says after greeting me, her eyes sweeping over me with open admiration.
I smile, a little self conscious but flattered. “Well, thank you. But I must admit, you’re so beautiful.” I mean it, and when I say it, her cheeks turn a soft pink as she smiles back.
“Thank you,” she says, pressing her lips together before tilting her head slightly. “So, how is my cousin treating you?” Her eyes widen with curiosity.
I scoff and let out a small laugh. “Oh Jesus, it would be better if we don’t talk about him right now.” I giggle, though there is an edge to it that betrays how I really feel.
Seraphina laughs with me, shaking her head. “I know, he’s an asshole, right?”
“Damn. Yes,” I reply without hesitation.
A waiter approaches and hands us our drinks. I take a sip of my dirty martini, the sharp taste grounding me as I sink into the leather couch. I look around, taking in the neon lights, the privacy, the quiet luxury of the VIP lounge. I don’t belong here, not really, but tonight I’m pretending that I do.
“So, do you like Vegas, Bridget?” Seraphina asks, swirling her drink slowly, watching the liquid move in her glass.
I shake my head. “I’m still adjusting to the noise, the nightlife, the gambling. Everything feels too much sometimes.”
She smirks knowingly. “You’ll get used to it. Vegas is fun. You just need to let yourself have fun.”
I laugh and raise my martini glass slightly. “Yeah, that’s what I’m doing. Trying to have fun.”
She winks at me. “There are also a lot of handsome guys in Vegas, honey.”
I roll my eyes immediately. “Oh no, no. Not men. Please.”
“My cousin already disappointed you?” she asks, her tone playful and sarcastic.
I beam and shake my head slowly. “Kind of.”
She bursts out laughing. “Then you’ve got a long way to go,” she murmurs before taking another sip of her drink, her eyes glittering as the music pulses around us.
We keep talking, joking, and laughing like two reckless girls, the kind of laughter that feels loud even in a place already drowning in sound. For a moment, I almost forget where I am. Almost forget who owns this city and who owns me inside it.
Then Adriano appears.
He doesn’t announce himself. He never does. One moment the space feels lighter, and the next it feels heavier, like the air itself bends around him. He sits on a couch a few feet away from us, relaxed, dominant, already in control. A waiter appears instantly, placing a drink in his hand before Adriano even asks. Rafaelle joins him, along with two broad men who look like they were carved out of stone and violence. They talk low, drink slow, cigars glowing between their fingers.
Adriano’s gaze settles on me.
It isn’t rushed. It isn’t hungry in a careless way. It is deliberate, measuring, the kind of look that strips without touching. I shift on the leather couch, suddenly too aware of my legs, my dress, my breathing. I finish my martini just to give my hands something to do, and the moment the glass is empty, a waiter is already beside me, waiting.
Before I can speak, Seraphina cuts in. “Should we have shots?” she asks, her eyes bright with mischief.
I nod, forcing a casual shrug. “Sounds great to me.”
She beams and turns to the waiter. “Six shots, please.”
The waiter nods and disappears.
I can still feel Adriano watching me. The weight of his attention presses into my skin. I glance his way, and my breath stutters when I catch him staring openly now, unapologetic. His beard sharpens his features, his black suit makes his fair skin stand out, clean and dangerous. He looks like sin dressed as a gentleman. He exhales cigar smoke slowly, speaking to the men beside him as if nothing in the room could distract him.
Then a girl approaches them.
She wears a revealing black, glittery dress that clings to her body. She runs her hand over Adriano’s shoulder like she owns the right. My stomach tightens. She sits beside him, leans in, presses her lips to his neck. Something inside me twists sharply, an ugly, aching feeling I don’t want to name. Suddenly, I want out. Out of the club, out of the lights, out of this city.
The waiter returns with the shots. Seraphina hands me one, grinning. I lick the salt from my hand, toss the shot back, and bite into the lemon. The burn distracts me, briefly. My eyes drift back to Adriano. This time, the girl’s fingers are on his face, tracing him like a claim.
We take the second shot.
“Wow,” Seraphina coughs, laughing. “That’s amazing.” She hands me the third glass.
We lick the salt together and down it. The alcohol burns my chest, then spreads warmth through my veins. My head feels light, loose, like the edges of the world are softening.
“Let’s go dance,” Seraphina says, already standing.
She offers her hand, and I take it. The dance floor swallows us whole. Music pounds through my body. Lights blur. Her hand rests on my shoulder, mine on her waist. She spins me, and I laugh, dizzy, reckless. We dance like this for minutes, maybe more. Time slips. My vision blurs further.
Then strong arms wrap around us.
Rafaelle pulls us in, Seraphina on one side, me on the other. His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “Enough. We’re leaving. You girls have had more than enough to drink.”
We don’t protest. We just let him guide us. Outside, the night air feels colder, sharper. A black car waits at the curb like a shadow. Rafaelle opens the front door and helps me inside.
The engine starts.
I look at the driver.
My heart skips violently.
“Adriano,” I whisper.
He glances at me briefly, then his eyes flick down to my thighs before returning to the road. His jaw tightens. He exhales slowly, says nothing, and drives on, the city lights sliding past us like silent witnesses.
He doesn’t take me back to the Bellagio tonight. Instead, the car turns toward his mansion, the place that feels less like a home and more like a fortress. When I step out of the car, the night air hits me hard. It seeps through my skin, sharp and unforgiving. I hug my arms around myself, suddenly dizzy, the world tilting just slightly beneath my feet.
A hand settles firmly on my waist, steadying me. He guides me back against the car, close enough that I can feel his presence without looking at him. I watch as he removes his suit jacket, smooth and deliberate, then drapes it over my shoulders. It’s warm, heavy with his scent, spicy and expensive, unmistakably his.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice softer than I intend.
He says nothing, only helps me inside the mansion. The doors close behind us with a final, echoing sound. “Sit here. I’ll be right back,” he orders, pointing to the couch in the living room before disappearing toward the kitchen.
I sit, clutching his jacket tightly against my chest. I breathe him in like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. I kick off my shoes, my head still swimming, my thoughts slow and hazy.
He returns with a glass in his hand and holds it out to me. “Drink this.”
I take it, eyeing the liquid. “What is it?”
“It’s not poison,” he says flatly. I smirk despite myself. He sits beside me, close enough that I feel the heat of him.
I drink it all in one go. Lemon water. The sourness makes my eyes squeeze shut, and I cough lightly as he takes the empty glass from my hand.
We sit in silence for a long while, the kind that feels heavy but not uncomfortable. Slowly, my head clears. The room steadies. The world sharpens again.
“I should sleep,” I say, standing up.
His hand shoots out and catches mine, stopping me. I turn to look at him. His grip tightens, then his hand slides to my ass, squeezing hard, possessive, unapologetic.
“Do you have any idea how many men were staring at you tonight?” he says, his voice low, dangerous. “Looking at you with filthy intentions.”
“So?” I shake my head, unfazed.
His jaw tightens, anger flashing in his eyes. “They could have approached you. Touched you.”
I scoff and meet his gaze. “I knew you’d stop them.”
For a moment, he says nothing. His expression shifts, something dark and conflicted passing through his eyes. Then he releases me.
I turn away and walk toward my bedroom, my heart pounding for reasons I don’t want to admit.
Is Adriano De Costa… jealous?