Chapter Four: The Devil's Offer

(Luca POV)

I really shouldn't have let her come back. It would've been smarter to shut it down last night, to end whatever this was.

I meant to tell Nico that we weren't hiring anymore to get her out before she became a hassle I'd regret later. But I didn't do that. Fuck no. Instead, I let her come for this interview when all the signs were screaming at me not to do so. And now, sitting behind my mahogany desk in my darkened office, I'm nervous and anxious and fucking excited to see her walk through my door.

For the first time in a long time, I'm fucking impatient to see someone and full of questions I want answers to. I can't stand this feeling of uncertainty about what will happen next. I feel the energy from the club—the music in the air, the rhythm under my feet.

A soft knock against the door tenses me up. I don't move. Hell, I don't even respond immediately. Because I already know it's her. I can feel it—the same feeling. I had the same one's last night, and they are back again. Something is unsettling me. Again, it feels like an incoming storm. Taking a steady breath, I let it out slowly. "Come in." The door creaks open, and there she was, Mila Hart, or whoever she fucking is.

She steps inside, hesitating just a tiny moment before walking inside. Her movement this time, though, is without a trace of fear, which is intriguing. Most people react with fear long before crossing into my den. They feel my presence, my unspoken authority. Another reason I know she isn't from around here is because she would have been afraid. But as she walks deeper into my office, I see her steps falter, knowing that fear is returning to her now. I can see she is nervous in how she toys with the hem of her sleeve and the slight flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.

That irks me more than it should. "Sit," I command, motioning toward the chair before me. She complies, sitting down fast, her hands resting in her lap. She is stiff but calm, with a delicate balance that hints at giving herself a tremendous speech.

I study her for a minute. Damn, she is small, tiny, and, if I am honest, way too fucking cute. She is not weak, but she very definitely feels out of place. She looks like a lost puzzle piece; that one piece that is without it, your puzzle is incomplete. "Do I want to know why you are here?" I ask. My voice is steady and carefully measured. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard.

"For a job interview, I was told, yes."

I tilt my head slightly. "Are you sure about that?"

She bites her lips, thinking. "Yes." Leaning forward, elbows on the desk, I say, "What's your experience?" She exhales slowly, deliberating her words.

"I told Nico—"

"Tell me."

She hesitates but holds my gaze, a little spark of defiance in her eyes. Then she responds carefully, "I've worked in small places—bars, restaurants."

A lie. One I choose not to call her out on, at least not yet. Instead, "Names," I press, my tone low and hard. Her body tenses slightly; I can see it even in her movements. "Nothing big enough for you to know."

Another lie. I maintain my focus on her, unblinking. "Where are you from?"

She freezes for a fraction of a second before answering. "Seattle."

Lie. The answer rolls off her tongue much too smoothly, like she practiced this lie a thousand times. I hear it quickly through.

I hold her gaze, the air between us thick. She's good. Not flawless, but skilled at masking the truth. And for a reason I can't, for the fucking life of me, figure out, and that only makes me want to rip out her secrets, to peel her apart layer by layer until I uncover the real her, hidden beneath all the bullshit. I lean back slowly, studying her with an almost primal intensity.

Finally, I say the words that will change our lives. "You start tonight." She blinks at me, startled, like someone who has prepared for the worst and then, in the moment, discovers that, all along, she had been standing on the edge. "You're offering me a job?" she asks incredulously. I smile as I relish this opportunity for dominance. "Should I not be?" There is a faint silence as she holds her breath. It stretches between us like a tight wire before she softly replies, "I just thought, I don't know."

I nod toward the door, my decision made. "Go. Nico will get you set up."

She doesn't protest or question it then, instead, she stands and bolts out of my office, scared I will change my mind would be my guess for that. As I watched her go, my jaw clamped, my anticipation and dread mixed. Because I know, deep down in my bones, that this could just be the worst decision I've made in a long time.

As I step on the club floor, the energy is still there. The music is not deafening but is in the air and under my feet. The Bodies sway and whirl in tune with it. As I round the corner towards the bar, I see her. Mila. Behind the bar, she is already wearing an oversized apron that seems to swallow her petite frame, her hands trembling slightly as she attempts to pour a drink. Nico guides her, but she is struggling. As I stood there, I could already start counting her blunders. She seems like a clumsy little thing. 

She had been standing here for five minutes, forgetting to charge a VIP customer. Then she tripped over a bar mat, narrowly dodged the stool and dropped the entire bottle of tequila she had in her hand on the floor. And then? Gawd helped me, and she dropped the whole tray of cleaned glasses over the counter. She is struggling to keep up the pace. Our seasoned bartender, Nico, is trying his best to be patient, but even that is wearing thin. I can see him rolling his eyes, the regret in his eyes. He looks at me, and I just wink as we watch her struggle.

But instead of being angry, I'm, for some reason, more enraged by how she draws attention. Some men around the bar have started to take notice, not of her blunders, but of her. She drew attention to her like she was the center of attention. A few feet away, in a booth in the dark corner, sit a couple of young guys, snickering and pointing to her, the bastards. They whisper, but I can see what is passing through the air between them. Their eyes lingered for moments too long on her. They keep looking at her, looking at her body.

This is going to be trouble for me. Then there, leaning over the bar with a drooling smile, is my VIP client, a corporate arsehole with slicked-back hair and a bastard's attitude. He is leaning and hovering too close for my liking. But Mila? She's not even fucking aware of it. Softly smiling and listening to whatever the fucker is saying. She is so damn naïve and oblivious to the way he is trying to look down her shirt.

I, however, am painfully aware. A sick feeling creeps up my throat. A sudden possessive heat coils in my chest, tightening its grip with every passing second. She's fucking mine. She works for me, mine, and nobody else. It makes me feel crazy, and I don't fucking do crazy. I do control. This feeling shocks me. My unspoken claim, and the fact that I don't want other men touching her, is that no one even stares too long, no one even fucking dares to approach her.

Nico looks over at me and senses the shift in me, the way my body goes rigid as I stare at the bastard, then her. Not even missing a stride, he gets her away from the guy. He pulls her from the bar and sends her into the back room. He knew I was about to lose control of my shit. As she walks away, the pressure that has tightened inside me slowly starts to loosen. I slowly breathe, just barely. This is going to be trouble for me.

I am never fucking distracted. I don't let myself get this way.

I don't care about the way men drool over the women in this club.

Yet tonight, I have made my second fucking biggest mistake.

And again, it had to do with Mila Hart.