Dance of Deception: Chapter 13

I’ve always known I was…different.

Most people move through life guided by certain precepts—empathy, fear, guilt.

I’m unencumbered by such things.

I learned young that most people flinch when they see pain. Hesitate before hurting someone. Question their own anger.

I never did.

Not once.

Vito saw it early on, though he never called it what it was.

“Rambunctious,” he said when I was a kid, after I broke some other kid’s nose for who-even-remembers-what at the playground.

“Hot-blooded, like your grandfather,” when at fifteen I sent a rival’s son to the ER for looking at me the wrong way.

“Driven for success,” when I buried my first body three years later and felt less than nothing.

He never admitted it outright. Even the couple of times he took me wolf hunting up in Alaska, which I know was probably his way of “letting me” get my “urges” out. It’s never been anything explicitly said.

He’s never looked me in the eye and said, “My son is a psychopath.”

But he knows.

And I’ve always known, too.

It’s not just that I was born into the mafia world. That’s a lie we tell ourselves—that it makes us more ruthless, that power warps us, that the rules we live by are different because they have to be.

But it’s not just that.

It’s what’s inside you.

And inside me is an empty space where there should be the switch that stops certain impulses in most people.

Other men—like my father, even like Nico or Dante—calculate the risk. Weigh their morality against their ambition. Debate how far they’re willing to go.

I don’t.

I want something? I take it.

Someone crosses me? I erase them.

The only thing that’s ever mattered is winning.

And I always, always win.

But I’ve never wanted anything serious. Not women, not relationships, not any of the shit that makes men go soft.

I’ve had women—plenty of them. More than I can count. Some hung around longer than others. Some played the part of the doting girlfriend before they realized I wasn’t built for love, or romance, or happily ever after.

But they were all just temporary distractions.

No one ever really made me feel anything, until her.

The little dancer who had the audacity to think she could threaten me and walk away unscathed.

I can’t stop thinking about her, and the darkness inside me has latched onto her in a way I don’t understand.

It’s not just her beauty, or the way my hands seem to have become fixated on touching her and conquering her skin one square inch at a time. It’s not just that she’s cunning, or that she got one over on me.

There’s just something nameless about her that calls to the blackness inside me.

Maybe it’s that she ran, made me chase her.

She played a game with me I’ve always craved but never explored—not in the way I explored it with her.

Maybe it’s that she still refuses to break, in spite of the fact that she’s terrified of me and knows she should know better. Still tries to fight. Still pushes back.

Where most people cower in front of me, she defies. Where most people fold when I make it clear they’ve lost, she keeps going.

I’ve never come across another creature like her.

And that fascinates me.

Doomsday has already been alerted that we’ll be coming through, so they’re ready for us when we stroll in. The fact that we just strolled in with five extras—i.e., Lyra and her friends—doesn’t faze the staff in the slightest as they escort us through the pulsing club to our booth in the VIP section.

It doesn’t exactly hurt that Laz is a part owner of the place.

Doomsday is used to mafia patrons, especially in the VIP section, though the place is far more known for its Russian clientele than the likes of Nero, Nico, and me. I’m sure the three of us being here with Roman Nikitin, Laz Kislev, Mikhail Javanović and Bane Antonov is raising some eyebrows in certain circles. But they can wonder all they want.

There are some reasons that won’t be spoken about outside of a certain courtroom. But there are others that anyone could see if they bothered to look. Like the fact that a lot of us went to Knightsblood University together—the ultra-exclusive “Ivy League Alternative” outside the city that caters almost exclusively to the heirs of various criminal empires. Or that a lot of us were in the same club at that school together—Para Bellum, to be exact.

At the end of it all, simply giving a shit about who you’re seen hanging out with is something the older generations seemed to have worried about far more than us. In Pop’s day, he wouldn’t have been caught dead clubbing with members of the Bratva.

But our generation? We don’t give a fuck.

The VIP section is exactly what you’d expect—set on a slightly elevated level, looking down at the rest of the patrons dancing below. The booth is huge and luxurious, with deep, plush seating that curves around a table already laden with top-shelf bottles, buckets of ice, and crystal glasses. The music pulses, low lights casting a sultry glow over the space as the crowd twists and writhes.

Everything about Doomsday screams hedonism, from the go-go dancers in elevated cages grinding to the heavy bass, to the couples tangled together in dark corners, lost in their own pleasure.

I feel Lyra tense beside me.

She doesn’t belong in a place like this.

And she fucking knows it.

Milena, Brooklyn, Evelina, and Naomi don’t hesitate—they slide into the booth, already reaching for bottles, caught up in the moment.

Lyra hesitates.

She moves toward an empty spot beside me, and that’s when I pounce.

Before she can sit, I pull her onto my lap, settling her firmly against my thigh. Her breath catches sharply and her whole body goes stiff. Then she tries to stand, but my grip on her waist tightens.

“No.”

Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide, cheeks flushed pink.

She goes to move again, but my arm snakes around her, my hand gripping her hip firmly as my fingers splay across her stomach—pressing through the material of her dress into her skin, keeping her exactly where I want her.

“Can…” She swallows heavily. “Can you please let me go?”

“No.”

I casually reach over and pour us glasses of champagne from one of the bottles, passing her one before I take a sip from mine.

Studying her. Analyzing her.

She’s tense in my lap, her body rigid like she’s fighting herself more than she’s fighting me. I watch as she drags her eyes around the club, looking at the dancers down below, then pulling her attention to the VIP level. I hear her breath catch sharply, and I turn to follow her gaze.

Doomsday has a…lax approach to public displays of affection. It all part of the hedonistic vibe, and frankly it’s why people come here. So I’m not surprised when I spot the couple in the corner of another darkened booth not far away.

She’s in his lap, her back to his chest, eyes closed in ecstasy as she grinds on him. The man has his arms wrapped around her, one hand casually cupping her breast through her dress, his fingers rolling and pinching one of her nipples. His other hand is under her short skirt, moving in slow circles as she rolls her hips.

It’s obvious from the looks on both of their faces that his dick is inside her.

Lyra goes still when she realizes what she’s looking at. Her breath hitches violently, and she whips her gaze away, her face stricken, looking a little green around the gills.

Curious.

Her hands drop to my arm, feebly trying to push it off her as she tries to get up. Obviously, I don’t move it in the slightest, letting my fingers dig into her a little bit tighter—my way of saying “don’t bother”.

She tries to shift again. I tighten my hold a little more.

A warning. A claim.

She exhales sharply through her nose, but doesn’t move again.

Smart girl.

The rest of the booth is a blur of conversation and laughter—Milena and Brooklyn already knocking back drinks, Evelina rolling her eyes as Roman teases her, Naomi watching the whole scene with bright, eager eyes.

No one is looking at us.

“Does that shock you?”

I nod my chin at the couple still fucking in the corner.

Lyra’s face burns, but she doesn’t look at where I’ve just gestured.

“No,” she says quickly. Too quickly.

“Are you embarrassed by it?”

She squirms in my lap, her brow furrowing. “No, I just don’t…” She shrugs. “I don’t need to spy on them.”

“Oh, but you’re so good at that.”

She stiffens, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.

“That…” Her throat works again, bobbing deliciously. “That wasn’t on purpose,” she murmurs. “I told you that already.”

“Are you bothered by what you saw that night?”

I watch her face pale a little, feel the way her body tightens under my grip. She shakes her head side to side a little too vigorously.

“No.”

Such a liar.

“What you saw that night doesn’t bother you? Or…” She gasps as my fingers tighten a little more on her, my breath hot against her neck. “Or that it was me doing those things?”

Lyra pauses a moment, then shakes her head again.

“I—I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Well, I do.”

She squirms again, shivering as I lean closer, my lips inches from her earlobe.

“Surely someone like you has thoughts about what you saw.”

Her eyes snap to mine furtively, trying to see into the darkness lurking there before she decides that’s a bad idea and averts them again.

“I…”

“Surely a pre-med student with aims of practicing psychiatry has thoughts about what you saw that night.”

She freezes again, her shoulders locking.

I chuckle mockingly. “What’s wrong, little dancer? Thought I didn’t know?”

She forces a neutral expression. “What I’m studying in school is hardly a state secret.”

No—but she didn’t expect me to know.

I tilt my head, watching her squirm. “You’ve been studying people like me, haven’t you?”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.

I tap my fingers against her waist, slowly, rhythmically.

“Go on then,” I say smoothly. “Diagnose me.”

She blinks up at me, eyes darting toward the others.

But no one is paying attention.

No one’s going to rescue her from this.

“You think I’m a monster.”

She swallows, her pulse thumping under my fingers. “I—no.”

“Liar.”

I smile when she trembles a little.

“If it helps with your diagnosis, that man deserved what he got.”

“Says who?”

The second she blurts the words, her lips snap shut again, her eyes widening like she’s horrified that they spilled out.

I grin. “Says me. Says the Black Court.”

Her eyes snap to mine. Her lips part, as if to ask all the questions I’m sure she’s had ever since that night. She hesitates a second, but finally she speaks.

“What was that place?” she says quietly. “What is the Black Court?”

I smile. “Nothing you need to worry about, little dancer.” Her breath hitches as I reach up with my other hand, brushing a lock of gingery red away from her face as my eyes capture hers.

“You haven’t done it yet.”

Her brow furrows slightly. “Done what?”

“Diagnosed me.”

She shifts uncomfortably in my lap again. “I… I don’t want to.”

“You’re not going to offend me, little dancer,” I growl. “Do it.”

I grip her jaw, tilting her face to mine, forcing her to see me.

“Say it,” I murmur.

Her hands press against my chest, not quite pushing, but like she’s fighting the weight of the truth.

“I—”

“Say it, Lyra.”

She licks her lips, her voice trembling.

“You… You don’t feel things like other people do.”

I smile. “Such as.”

She starts to look away, but I grab her jaw, forcing her gaze back to me.

“Don’t tap out yet. Keep going. What makes you think that?”

“The other night…” she trails off, and her gaze drops.

“Go. On…”

“You just…” She swallows. “You just killed that man,” she whispers, a tremor rippling through her body.

“I already told you, he deserved it. Surely you of all people are familiar with the concept of bad people getting their comeuppances.”

Her eyes snap to mine, fire blazing behind them at my obvious low blow. But she reels it back, dropping her gaze again.

“You think I didn’t feel what I should have when I killed him?”

I tilt her chin up, forcing her gaze back to me.

“Did you?” she asks quietly.

“No.”

She trembles in my lap.

My dick gets a little harder when she does.

“I’d like that diagnosis now, doctor,” I growl quietly with an icy smile on my face.

“Carmine—”

“I’m waiting…”

She wriggles again. “If I say it, will you let me go?”

“It can’t hurt your chances.”

Her bottom lip slips between her teeth, and she chews on it.

“Say it, Lyra.”

She takes a slow, shaky breath, not looking at me.

“You’re… You’re a psychopath.”

The words hang between us. And then—I smile.

I let the moment stretch out, let her feel the weight of what she just admitted.

I lean in, my lips brushing against her ear.

“Good girl,” I murmur, voice silk and steel. “Thank you for your honesty.”

I can feel her pulse thrumming against my fingers, the erratic beat betraying how hard she’s fighting to stay in control. I can also feel her starting to fray at the edges.

I am not the kind of man to let an opportunity like that go to waste.

I take a slow sip of my drink, letting my gaze drag lazily back to the couple in the corner.

His hands are on her everywhere—gripping her hips, sliding into her dress to maul her breasts as she bounces on his lap. He’s got a handful of her hair pulled tight as she gasps and shoves back in ecstasy.

It’s raw. Unfiltered.

I glance at Lyra. She’s deliberately not looking.

I smirk, watching her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap.

“Look at them,” I murmur.

Her gaze remains fixed straight ahead, her jaw set, her fingers digging into the silk of her dress.

I tilt my head, studying her. This isn’t just shyness. It runs deeper than that.

I lean in, my voice a rough growl against her ear.

“You’re not a child, Lyra.”

She inhales sharply.

“Why is it,” I murmur, “that you can’t even look at that?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even move.

The only sign that she’s still breathing is the slight, uneven rise and fall of her chest.

Very interesting.

“You study people,” I muse, letting my fingers stroke lazily over her waist. “And here you are, refusing to face something so basic. So naturally, inherently human.”

Her nails press harder into her thighs.

“It’s just sex, little dancer.”

I drag a hand up her spine, feeling the way she shudders. I brush my lips against her ear, speaking so quietly only she can hear.

“Look at them,” I say again.

She still doesn’t move.

I let out a slow sigh, then reach up and grip her jaw, turning her face toward the couple in the corner, forcing her to watch.

She gasps sharply, trying to twist away. “Stop it. Stop it.”

Her voice is low, panicked.

“Watch them,” I command, voice calm but edged with steel. “Or else tell me why you can’t.”

She shakes her head, struggling in my grip.

“Carmine,” she breathes, “please.”

Her fingers tighten on my wrist, but she’s not pushing me away anymore. She’s losing this fight, and she knows it. I can feel it in the way her body starts to tremble.

“Please,” she blurts. “Please, I don’t…I…”

Her breath stutters.

Her body sways.

Her hands suddenly lose their grip on my wrist.

Her head lolls slightly, her breath coming in short gasps.

And then, before I even have time to process it, she slumps against my chest.

“Lyra.”

No response. Her body is limp in my arms, her breath uneven, shallow.

I swear quietly, holding her more securely against me. What the fuck just happened?

This wasn’t fear, or her playing a game. This was real.

And I wasn’t expecting it.

I glance down at her, at the slight tremor in her fingers, at the way her face is drained of all color.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel something unfamiliar twist in my chest that I don’t like.

Because it feels too close to concern.