17. Club meeting

17. Club meeting
If you don't clear your misunderstanding in time. They became the reason for distance forever.

GABRIELLA

It had been a brutal week.

The workload was relentless—so crushing that I half-expected to collapse in the corridor any day now. With Carlos away handling God-knows-what cartel mess for another three weeks, I was stuck doing the work of two people: Alejandro’s personal assistant
andCarlos’s right hand.

I was furious.

What did Alejandro think I was—a robot? He paid me scraps and expected perfection. Every email, every schedule, every phone call had to run like clockwork. Sometimes, when I saw him lounging in his pristine office or walking in with that smug air of effortless authority, I imagined wrapping my hands around his throat while he slept, wiping that entitled look off his face once and for all.

But before I could indulge too far in that fantasy, the voice of reason kicked in, sharp and scolding.
“Stop wasting energy on things you can’t control. If you had the power, you would’ve done it already. Focus. Survive.”

And it was right.

My phone rang. Alejandro.

Of course.

“I need you in my office. Now.”

No “please.” No “thanks.” Just another order barked through the line. I clenched my jaw, counted to three, and replied, “Yes, sir,” before heading toward his office.

I entered with my best fake smile.
“Good morning.”

Alejandro barely looked up.
“Good morning, Gabriella. I have a meeting tonight with an Italian mob boss. Club Mi Amour, 9 p.m. I’ve emailed you everything. Prep the files. I want them reviewed before dinner.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll handle it.”

My voice was calm, my smile unshaken. But inside, I was seething.

Back at my desk, I buried myself in work. No break, no pause—just relentless typing, coordinating, cross-referencing data, and prepping files until my brain felt fried. By the time I finally looked up, it was 3 p.m., and I had only enough time to cram a tasteless sandwich into my mouth.

Thankfully, the universe showed mercy: I was allowed to leave early to prepare for the evening. A rare gift. I needed the time—not to pick a dress, not to rehearse protocol—but to nap. Just a nap. A single hour of unconsciousness to piece myself back together.

Because tonight, I had to be sharp. Composed. Flawless.

And beneath it all, I had to remind myself of the long game.

Win Alejandro’s trust. Ingratiate myself into the Martinez family. Become indispensable.

Then, and only then, would the real plan begin.

I woke up around 5 p.m., groggy but determined to look sharp. After cleansing my face with an aloe-vera herbal wash, I slipped into a fitted red dress and matched it with a red leather jacket. For footwear, I chose black fur boots—classy but comfortable. My makeup was minimal: just enough pink gloss to brighten my lips. I didn’t need much; I’d learned to weaponize subtlety.

At exactly 7 p.m., Alejandro called. I stepped out to find him leaning casually against a red Mercedes E-Class. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a GQ cover—brown leather jacket, crisp white shirt, party blue trousers, and those expensive Italian leather shoes that whispered quiet power. His eyes lit up when he saw me.

"You look really pretty," he said, opening the car door for me like a gentleman.

That one sentence—simple, warm—softened my irritation about the late-night work. Just a little.

The drive was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at Mio Amore. The club’s name glowed in soft pink neon, casting a sultry glow across the velvet rope entrance. The vibe was cool, laid-back, and dangerously intimate. Perfect for men who lived in shadows.

Inside, we were led to a private lounge tucked behind velvet curtains. Plush seating, low lighting, and a discreet waiter set the stage. It felt more like a high-end speakeasy than a nightclub.

Mr. Alissandro arrived shortly after. Mid-forties, impeccably dressed, clean-shaven, and radiating sharp discipline. He looked like the kind of man who gave orders with a smile and slit throats with the same expression.

“Buona serata, Signor Alissandro,” Alejandro greeted, his Italian heavy but confident.

Alissandro returned the greeting with a courteous nod before diving straight into business.

I recognized the dynamics immediately. This wasn’t just negotiation—it was a chess match between two men who didn’t lose. Alejandro had already briefed me on the deal: a strategic alignment to control narcotic movement through Alissandro's territories in Italy. Lucrative. Risky. Potentially explosive.

I didn’t speak Italian, but I didn’t need to. Their postures, shifting tones, occasional smirks, and pointed fingers told me enough. Each was trying to extract more than he gave. Respect was being tested. Boundaries were being drawn.

And I?

I was bored out of my mind.

This was a club, for heaven’s sake. Neon lights, music in the background, a stocked bar, and half the city’s beautiful people dancing behind closed doors—yet here I was, stuck like a secretary at a boardroom table.

But Alejandro was deep in the zone, and that gave me an opportunity. He wouldn’t notice if I wandered—just a little.

Besides, I told myself, I deserved a break.

Although it wasn’t exactly smart to leave Alejandro’s side during such an important meeting, the temptation was too strong. I was exhausted—physically, mentally. I should’ve been curled up under a blanket, binging a Netflix thriller, not babysitting two power-hungry men exchanging coded threats in Italian.

Still, walking off without saying a word would’ve been suicide. I knew the risk. That’s what made it thrilling.

The club, despite it being a weekday, was packed. The young and reckless don’t wait for weekends. The bass-heavy reggaeton beat pulsed through the floor, thumping in my chest. I tossed back a few vodka shots to take the edge off, then slipped onto the dance floor.

For a few blissful minutes, I let go. I danced—really danced—my hips catching the beat, my arms loose and wild. That was until I noticed him.

A well-groomed creep in a designer shirt and a smug grin. He had been harassing a group of girls earlier—hovering too close, grabbing, pretending to be playful when he was clearly unwelcome. The girls left, obviously uncomfortable, and now he was at the bar knocking back shots.

I kept an eye on him, hoping he'd vanish into the crowd. No such luck.

A few minutes later, I felt a figure brush up behind me. At first, I thought the dance floor was just crowded—but the closeness, the way he mimicked my moves, made my skin crawl.

“Sexy girl, won’t you give me the time of day?” he whispered in heavily accented Spanish, breath hot on my neck.

I didn’t flinch. I leaned in and replied loud enough for him to hear over the music, “Try anything funny and I’ll knock you out.”

He didn’t back off. Instead, I heard a smug little laugh.

Arrogant. Drunk. Entitled.

Then he crossed the line.

His hand grabbed my butt, then moved up and gripped my breasts—bold, disgusting, and deliberate. For a second, I froze. Not in fear, but in disbelief.

Then my body took over.

I spun, kneeing him hard in the groin. He gasped and collapsed forward, hands between his legs. I didn’t stop. I kicked him again in the stomach, sending him sprawling on the floor.

The music cut off. The DJ had seen. The crowd scattered to the edges, leaving a wide circle around us. Shouts erupted, people pointing, yelling. Some pulled out their phones.

Just perfect.

Another scene. Another mess. And this time, I had no cartel cover story to hide behind.

I cursed under my breath.

The commotion drew a crowd. Staff members rushed over, followed closely by Alejandro and Mr. Alissandro. The Italian boss took one look at the man curled on the floor and scowled, his expression shifting from confusion to outrage.

“Who attacked my trusted aide?” he barked. “Show yourself! You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

I stepped forward without flinching. “Sir, your man was harassing several guests on the dance floor. He tried the same with me. When I told him to back off, he sexually assaulted me. That’s why I kicked him.”

Alissandro’s face twisted into fury. “How dare you? You must have come on to him. Why else would you sneak away from your boss? You little slut!”

The words stung like acid, but before I could react, Alejandro stepped in front of me, shielding me with his body.

“Enough,” he snapped, voice low and dangerous. “I know my employee. She wouldn’t lie. Why would she attack him if he hadn’t done anything? Explain that.”

The Italian mobster opened his mouth—then shut it. No words. Just silence.

Alejandro pounced. “That silence tells me everything. I’m pulling out of our deal. I won’t work with a man who protects predators. Like boss, like employee. We’re done.”

He turned to me, voice gentler. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He walked me out to the car, opened the door, and waited until I was seated. As soon as we reached the privacy of the parking lot, I broke down.

“I... I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, wiping my eyes uselessly. “I ruined everything. I never should’ve left the lounge. This is all my fault. You lost the deal because of me.”

Alejandro looked at me—really looked. His face, usually so unreadable, was soft with concern.

“Gabriella, none of this is your fault. You stood up for yourself, and that takes guts. That bastard deserved worse. We don’t need people like them in our circle. We’ll find another way.”

Then, more gently: “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

"Alejandro I Don't know why I feel like it's my mistake " I said.

He tried to soothe me, gently shushing my sobs, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. “Gabriella,” he said softly, “sneaking off wasn’t the smartest thing to do, I’ll admit. But it’s not a crime. You're human. You’ve been under pressure nonstop. That’s on me.”

His words wrapped around my frantic mind like a warm blanket, but they couldn’t stop the storm inside. I felt like I had shattered something important—jeopardized everything I had worked so hard to build.

I didn’t know why I felt guilty.

I should’ve been glad he lost the deal—some tiny form of payback for everything he’s ever made me endure. But instead, a knot of remorse twisted in my stomach. Not because of the deal itself, but because... he chose me over it.

And that didn’t sit right.

I didn’t want his care, his protection, or his misplaced concern. He was supposed to be the enemy, the man I’d vowed to take down when the time was right. So why was I feeling like this?

“This is wrong,” I muttered under my breath, stomping my foot like a child throwing a tantrum.

Then he did something I never saw coming.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me—tight, reassuring, not possessive or entitled. It wasn’t lust or dominance that drove him, but something gentler. Something terrifyingly human.

His warmth seeped into my bones. I stood still at first, rigid from the weight of everything I was trying to suppress. But slowly, almost unconsciously, I let myself lean into him. I curled my arms around his torso, resting against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

When I tilted my head up to look at him, his dark eyes were already on me—soft, unreadable, watching my every move. My lips tingled and instinctively, I ran my tongue over them, suddenly aware of how dry they felt.

His breath caught.

So did mine.

And in that still moment, the air between us charged like a live wire. I couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. The urge to kiss him bubbled to the surface with alarming force—and I hated that I wanted it.

Then he leaned down, slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I closed my eyes, and a second later, our lips met in a soft, tentative kiss. It was slow and searching, like two people tasting a secret they weren’t supposed to share.

And God help me… I kissed him back.