Page 8 of Tempting Tessa

Some drunk fuck with a Rolex too big for his wrist slides up behind Contessa, pressing his crotch against her ass while she dances. His meaty hands grab her hips, fingers digging into the silver fabric of her dress. She tries to twist away, but he pulls her back against him, mouth at her ear saying something that makes her face contort with disgust.

I’m on my feet before I realize what I’m doing. The glass I was holding slams down on the table, small fissures no doubt appearing.

“Boss—” Alvarez starts, but I’m already moving.

I stop at the railing overlooking the dance floor. The VIP section gives me a perfect view of this fucker violating what’s mine. I catch the eye of my security detail stationed around the club and snap my fingers, pointing directly at the asshole grinding against Contessa.

Not even a minute later, two of my guys have the motherfucker by the arms, dragging him toward a side exit. He struggles, but they’re professionals. No one on the dance floor even notices in the chaos of bodies and music. Contessa doesn’t see it either, already moving back toward Natalia, shuddering at the phantom touch of that piece of shit.

I stand up, buttoning my suit jacket with steady hands. I adjust my cuffs, making sure everything’s in place. The rage is still there, but controlled and channeled now.

“Alvarez,” I say, “stay and watch her until she decides to go home. Make sure she gets there safely.”

Alvarez frowns, standing up beside me. “But, boss, shouldn’t I come with you for this?”

I give him a look that would make most men piss themselves. Alvarez has been with me long enough to know what it means.

He raises his hands in surrender. “You got it, boss, but be careful. I don’t trust anyone but me with your safety.”

“I will, old friend,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “This won’t take long.”

I take the private exit, the one reserved for those who pay enough to avoid being seen. My driver has the car waiting, engine running. As I slide into the back seat, I pull out my phone and dial.

“Bring him to the warehouse on Pier 33,” I instruct when my man answers. “And make sure he’s conscious when I get there.”

I end the call, leaning back against the leather seat. My cock is still hard, throbbing with the need to claim what belongs to me. I’ll deal with the piece of shit who touched her first, then I’ll go home and jerk off to the image of her in that silver dress, imagining it ripped to shreds on my bedroom floor.

Twenty minutes later, I’m walking into the warehouse I use for freight shipping that gets lost at sea.

The piece of shit is already tied to a metal chair in the center of the empty shipping container when I walk in. Blood drips from his nose, one eye already swelling shut. My boys did a decent job softening him up, but they know to leave the main event for me.

“Leave us,” I tell them. “Just Rico stays.”

Rico nods, taking position by the door. The others file out, and the heavy metal door slams shut with a sound that makes the drunk fuck flinch.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask, removing my suit jacket and handing it to Rico. I roll up my sleeves methodically, one at a time, exposing the forearms that have broken men stronger than this pathetic excuse.

“P-please,” he stutters, snot and tears mixing with the blood on his face. “I have money. Whatever you want⁠—”

“I asked if you know who I am.” I loosen my tie but don’t remove it. Sometimes I need it for other purposes.

“N-no, I don’t⁠—”

I backhand him hard enough that the chair nearly tips over. “My name is Matteo Marino.”

His eyes widen, recognition and terror flooding his face. Good. My reputation precedes me.

“Oh, fuck, oh Jesus, I’m sorry, Mr. Marino. Whatever I did⁠—”

“You put your filthy fucking hands on something that belongs to me.” I pull brass knuckles from my pocket, sliding them onto my right hand. “The woman in the silver dress.”

“I didn’t know she was yours! I swear to god⁠—”

“She is mine.” I flex my fingers; the metal catching the dim light. “And now I’m going to make sure you never touch what’s mine—or any woman—ever again.”

I grab his left hand where it’s tied to the chair arm. His fingers are pudgy and soft, with an expensive manicure. The nails of a man who’s never worked a day in his life.

“Please,” he begs, “I’ll do anything⁠—”