Backstage was tense and too bright.
The lights, the makeup, the fake lashes, the perfume, it all made Aria feel like she couldn't breathe.
She sat stiffly beside two women who looked like they'd done this a thousand times.
One of them lit a cigarette. The other filed her nails. Neither looked scared.
"Sei nuova, vero?" Mila asked, not even glancing up.
(You're new, huh?)
Aria said nothing.
The other girl, Elena, smirked. "Arrabbiata adesso, ma ti ci abituerai."
(You're mad now, but you'll get used to it.)
"Io non voglio abituarmi," Aria said coldly.
(I don't want to get used to this.)
Mila finally looked at her. Her face was pretty, but her eyes were tired and empty.
"Siamo tutte così all'inizio. Avevo quattordici anni quando mi hanno portata qui. Ora ne ho ventuno."
(We were all like that at first. I was fourteen when they brought me here. I'm twenty-one now.)
Elena added, "Io ne avevo diciassette. Sono passati quattro anni."
(I was seventeen. That was four years ago.)
Aria's throat tightened. "Non avete mai provato a scappare?"
(You never tried to escape?)
The girls laughed.
Not cruel.
Just… like it was a joke they were tired of hearing.
Mila flicked ash from her cigarette. "Per andare dove? A fare cosa? Qui mangio, bevo, e ho un letto. E nessuno mi uccide."
(To go where? Do what? Here I eat, drink, and have a bed. And no one kills me.)
"E guadagno più di qualsiasi cameriera," Elena added.
(And I make more than any waitress.)
Aria looked down.
No.
She couldn't accept that. She wouldn't.
"Io non voglio sopravvivere. Voglio vivere."
(I don't want to survive. I want to live.)
Neither answered. But both looked at her like they'd heard that line before and knew it wouldn't last.
Later, a man with a radio came to the door.
"Executive room. Portatele."
(Executive room. Bring them.)
They walked down a velvet hallway, security cameras blinking quietly overhead. The club's noise got louder with each step. And then the door opened.
The executive chamber.
It was massive.
Dim lighting. Plush black couches. Glass walls. Gold trim. A full bar and a personal DJ playing slow, bass-heavy music. And three men already inside , lounging, smoking, surrounded by smoke and liquor and money.
Mila's eyes widened. "Jackpot," she whispered. Elena giggled, fixing her hair.
They walked in like they'd done this before , hips swaying, lips curled, eyes soft.
Aria followed, slower. Watching. Analyzing.
Two of the men were already lighting cigars, laughing.
But it was the man in the middle that made her heart stop.
He didn't laugh. He didn't even move. Just sat back, legs apart, one arm resting lazily on the armrest, the other holding a cigarette between his fingers.
Dante Moretti.
And God. He was…
Beautiful in the most dangerous way.
Dark brown hair, thick and styled carelessly like he didn't give a damn.
A neatly trimmed beard, outlining a sharp jaw and full lips.
Tan skin, rugged and warm under the low lights.
His shirt was half-unbuttoned, showing a hint of hard chest and tattoos near his collarbone.
A silver watch hugged his wrist. His legs stretched out, black dress pants creased perfectly.
He looked like a man who'd killed people before , and didn't lose sleep over it.
His eyes flicked toward Aria.
Cold. Curious. A little amused.
And then back to his cigarette.
He didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just watched.
And in that moment, Aria knew , this man wasn't like the others.
The room had changed.
The music was louder now. Slower. Heavier. The kind that made people move without thinking.
Mila and Elena were already half-naked, dancing in front of Dante's men like it was the only thing they knew how to do. The men laughed, threw down money, and whispered things into their ears while tugging at their dresses.
Aria didn't move.
She stayed where she was in the corner of the room, hands by her side, eyes forward. Like a statue. But not one built to be admired.
She didn't shake her hips. She didn't smile.
She just stood there.
Eventually, the two men stood up, tossed some cash on the couch, and left with Mila and Elena ,both girls giggling like it was just another night.
The door shut.
Now it was just her and him.
Dante Moretti.
He sat there on the couch, still leaning back, legs wide, cigarette in his hand, watching her like she was a puzzle he wasn't in a rush to solve.
He didn't speak right away.
His eyes moved from her face, to her arms, to her legs, then back up again. Not in a sleazy way , but like he was inspecting something rare.
And then he spoke, low and casual.
"Non balli?"
(You're not dancing?)
Aria didn't answer. Her chest rose slowly. Her hands were cold. She wanted to speak but didn't trust what might come out.
He raised a brow, amused. "Sei muta?"
(Are you mute?)
She bit her cheek but still said nothing.
He laughed softly , not mocking, more… surprised.
He took another drag of his cigarette and tilted his head.
"Come ti chiami?"
(What's your name?)
Still nothing.
So he looked at her properly now.
And she was… breathtaking.
Not the loud, obvious kind of pretty. Not glitter and fake lashes. No.
She had this quiet beauty.
Natural. Real.
Big brown eyes, wide but alert, framed with thick lashes that looked too full to be fake. Her skin was golden-toned, glowing softly under the dim lights.
Her pink lips were slightly parted, pink and cracked from stress.
Her hair was dark, loose, messy like she'd fought someone off before they touched it.
The black dress they shoved her into clung to her figure , curves in all the right places ,but he could see it wasn't her. She wasn't trying to show off.
She looked tired, but not in the way the other girls did. Not… used up.
More like someone who hadn't slept.
And most of all , she looked clean.
Clean body. Clean energy. Clean soul.
That alone made her stand out in this place like she didn't belong. And that fascinated him.
"Tu non sei come le altre," he murmured.
(You're not like the others.)
He leaned forward now, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Hai paura di me?"
(Are you afraid of me?)
Still, she didn't answer. But her jaw tensed. He noticed.
And God, she was brave. Stupid maybe. But brave.
She didn't look away. Didn't cry. Just stared at him like she was planning to run or maybe stab him if he got too close.
Dante smiled to himself.
"Interessante."
(Interesting.)
Then he nodded once, flicked his cigarette into the tray, and said something that made her heart skip:
"Tutti fuori. Lei resta."
(Everyone out. She stays.)