THE CASTIGLIONE CONTRACT: The Devil is Obsessed with Me

"Oh baby, show me those titties!"

The drunken shout echoes through the heavy, bass-boosted air of The Obsidian Room, but I don't let my fake smile slip for even a second.

I keep my eyes locked on the crowd, shimmying my hips rhythmically as the metallic tassels on my tiny lace panties sway left and right.

Inside my head, I am imagining taking off one of my seven-inch platform heels and driving the stiletto spike straight into his stupid, sweaty face.

I get these violent thoughts almost daily. It's the only way to cope when you have a room full of disgusting, horny bastards leering at you like they want to bend you over and fuck you right in front of everyone.

The worst part? I can see the tan lines on half their fingers. Married men. Fucking hypocrites. It's honestly sickening.

A guy hovering right at the edge of the stage reaches out, a fistful of crumpled twenties in his hand. I grip the cold brass pole, swinging my body around in a slow, practiced arch.

I have strict rules here. I only allow these pricks to leer at me, throw cash, or stack bills into my thong or designer bra.

Nothing more. No touching the actual goods.

I drop low into a smooth squat right in front of him, winking as I lightly brush my fingertips against his greasy cheek. He pants like a dog as I collect the money, smoothly shoving the wad under the underwire of my bra.

From the side of the stage, Hannah-one of the other dancers-catches my eye. We share a quick, knowing smile.

Good going, girl. It's our silent language. We are splitting the extra tips later.

Then, the air in the club suddenly drops to a freezing zero.

It's a weird sensation, like a physical weight pressing down on the room. My eyes instinctively drift away from the shouting crowd and track toward the entrance.

Three men are walking into the club. They are all dressed in sleek, heavy black suits, looking less like patrons and more like a group of lethal detectives-or worse.

They claim a private side booth. Two of the men remain standing, their arms crossed, scanning the room like hawks.

The third man, probably the leader, has a heavy black coat draped casually over his broad shoulders. He slides into the leather booth.

The moment he sits, his gaze cuts through the dim, neon fog of the club and finds me.

I spin on the pole, my heart doing a strange, heavy thud against my ribs as I find myself staring right back at him.

The way this man gazes at me is intense. It's heavy, suffocating, and completely uncomfortable.

Who the fuck is he?

I've been working as a stripper here for two and a half years now, and I've seen every regular, every rich prick, and every local lowlife. I've never seen him.

But he keeps staring, his eyes tracking every single inch of my bare skin.

The crowd behind him keeps cheering, but the noise feels muffled now. I hate this job. I wish to God I didn't have to do it, but life left me with absolutely no choice.

It's either this, or watch my family starve under the weight of my father's sins.

Suddenly, the man in the coat gets up.

My breath catches in my throat as his towering frame approaches the stage. He doesn't look at anyone else. He stops right at the edge, reaches into his pocket, and drops a thick, rubber-banded stack of hundred-dollar bills right at my high-heeled feet.

I force myself to wink at him, trying to play it cool, but a sharp, electric thrill shoots straight down my spine. His eyes trail slowly down my body, hot and heavy, before he turns on his heel and walks back to his seat without saying a word.

What a weird, scary man, I think, my chest heaving as the music pumps on and the night continues.

~

By the time my shift finally ends, it's one in the morning.

The backstage changing room is a chaotic mess of cheap perfume, hairspray, and the sharp scent of makeup wipes. All the girls are crowded around the mirrors, unzipping their outfits, wiping away glitter, and loudly gossiping about the night.

"I swear to God, that bald guy in the front row tried to literally sniff the stage when Roxy did her flip," Amber laughs, tossing her fake eyelashes onto the counter.

"That's nothing," Hannah chimes in, rubbing lotion onto her thighs. "Some cheap bastard in the VIP lounge tried to pay me with a twenty-dollar Target gift card. I told him to take his bitch-ass back to the suburbs."

I burst out laughing, sliding off my towering heels and stretching my aching arches. It's the only time we get to relax.

Suddenly, the door clicks open and Gary, our manager, pokes his head in. His eyes scan the room until they lock onto me.

"Cassie. Get up. A guest wants to meet you in the private back room."

I let out a heavy, exhausted sigh. "Gary, you know I don't do private meetups. Tell him to come back tomorrow."

Gary steps into the room, a broad, overly toothy smile plastered across his face. He's a sneaky, lying bastard and everyone in this room knows it. But beneath that fake smile, I can see a distinct twitch in his jaw.

"You don't want to upset this one, sweetie," Gary says, his voice dropping into a serious whisper. "He's special. Move your ass."

I ponder for a tense moment. Gary is usually a pushy prick, but right now, he looks genuinely terrified. I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.

I haven't even removed my stage makeup or changed into my sweatpants yet. I'm still walking around half-naked, wearing nothing but my skimpy designer bra, a matching lace thong, and a sheer mesh wrap around my waist.

I follow Gary down the narrow, dimly lit hallway toward the VIP executive suite. He opens the heavy oak door, gives me a pathetic little nod, and ushers me inside.

My eyes instantly lock onto the man sitting on the leather sofa.

It's him. The mysterious, scary man from the stage.

"I brought her, sir. Just like you asked," Gary says, his voice practically trembling with a submissive tone I've never heard from him before.

The man doesn't look at Gary. He just raises a single, heavy hand and waves him away. Gary backs out of the room instantly, clicking the door shut behind him.

The lock snaps into place. I am officially alone in this room with three incredibly imposing men-the stranger on the couch, and his two massive shadows standing behind him.

I clear my throat, forcing my voice to stay polite and professional despite the fact that my heart is hammering against my ribs. "What am I here for?"

Now that I'm standing only a few feet away from him, the true gravity of this man hits me like a freight train.

He has dark, intricate tattoos covering his heavy hands, and I can see the black ink creeping all the way up his thick neck. He isn't the typical, pretty-boy handsome type.

He is rugged, brutal, and dangerous.

And his eyes... they are a piercing, freezing shade of steel-gray. Completely devoid of any warmth.

He slowly opens his mouth, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the silence as he drops a phrase so purely absurd it makes my brain short-circuit.

"I want to buy you."