Sexting the Ruthless Don

8

Azeelia Cole

The heavy oak doors closed behind me, shutting out the muted noise of the city street.

I expected a nightclub—pulsing lights, thumping bass, and a crowded dance floor. Instead, The Obsidian Lounge felt like a sanctuary for monsters. Gold-leaf ceilings arched over velvet armchairs, marble bars, and dimly lit private booths. Men in hand-tailored suits sat with high-ranking politicians, talking in quiet, measured tones over crystal glasses of amber liquor.

This wasn't a party. It was an executive boardroom for the criminal underworld.

My pulse hammered in my throat as I walked deeper into the room. Ethan’s black keycard felt heavy inside my clutch. Standing here, surrounded by the elite of the city's power structure, the truth hit me with devastating clarity. Ethan hadn't just stumbled into Gabriel's sphere of influence by accident. He had walked right through the front door. He had belonged here.

I smoothed down my black dress, forcing myself to look calm, collected, and out of reach. I was an investigative journalist; I needed to observe.

As I made my way toward the upper mezzanine bar, a face in the crowd caught my attention.

Near a secluded corner booth sat a middle-aged man with a thick scar running down his jaw. I recognized him immediately. He was the man standing beside Ethan in the photograph I found at the warehouse—one of Gabriel’s logistics managers.

I slowed my pace, slipping into the shadow of a grand marble pillar a few feet from his table.

"The federal audit is moving slow, but it's moving," Scarface was saying to a younger man in a gray suit. He kept his voice low, but the acoustic design of the alcove carried his words right to me. "If they trace those shipping manifests back to the docks, we're done."

"What about the missing paper trail?" the younger man asked nervously. "The stuff from three years ago?"

"Ethan took care of the digital files before he died," Scarface muttered, taking a gulp of his drink. "The problem is The Ledger. If Gabriel gets his hands on the physical copy Ethan hid, half the city goes down. We need to find it before Marchetti’s men do."

My breath hitched. The Ledger.

Before I could lean closer, a waiter carrying a tray of champagne glasses stepped into the alcove, heading straight toward my pillar. "Can I offer you a drink, ma'am?" he asked politely.

"No, thank you," I said quickly, backing away before Scarface could turn around.

My head was spinning as I moved toward the quieter hallway near the back restrooms. I pulled out my phone with trembling hands, opening my encrypted archives. I searched for every email, text, and note Ethan had ever sent me containing the word ledger, book, or record.

Nothing. He had scrubbed everything.

"Well, well. Look who decided to crash the party."

The rough, grating voice made my spine turn to ice. I looked up from my screen to see one of the men who had cornered me at the warehouse stepping out from the shadows of the hallway. He wasn't wearing his scuffed leather jacket tonight, but his bloodshot eyes and sneer were unmistakable.

"You," I gasped, stepping back.

"You shouldn't have come here, little girl," he growled, closing the distance between us. "You got lucky at the warehouse, but Marchetti’s guards aren't looking at this hallway. You're going to come with me quietly, and you're going to tell me where Ethan put—"

"Is there a problem here?"

The voice was cool, smooth, and laced with absolute, terrifying authority.

The man stopped dead in his tracks. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a ghost.

Gabriel stepped out from the private elevator at the end of the hall. He looked lethal in a dark velvet tuxedo, his hands casually resting in his pockets. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't reach for a weapon. He simply walked toward us, his grey eyes locked onto the man holding me cornered.

"Don Marchetti," the man stammered, taking a quick step backward, his hands hovering in the air. "I... I was just—"

"Leave," Gabriel said softly.

"Boss, she was asking questions—"

"I said leave," Gabriel repeated. The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees.

The man didn't hesitate. He bowed his head, turned on his heel, and practically sprinted down the corridor toward the main exit.

I stared after him, stunned. One word from Gabriel had dismantled a dangerous threat in less than three seconds. The sheer scope of his power wasn't just physical or financial; it was absolute control.

Gabriel turned his gaze onto me. The coldness in his eyes shifted, softening into a dangerous, dark amusement as he took a slow step closer.

"Azeelia," he murmured, his voice trailing over my skin like warm velvet. "What a pleasant surprise. What brings a sharp reporter to my private club?"

"I'm... working on an article," I lied instantly, clutching my purse tighter to my side. "A piece on private high-society lounges."

Gabriel smiled—a faint, knowing smirk that made my heart hammer against my ribs. He reached out, his long fingers brushing against my purse. With effortless grace, he slipped his hand inside and pulled out the black plastic keycard.

He held it up between two fingers, looking at the lion crest.

"A society article," Gabriel echoed, tilting his head. "Using a deceased auditor's master pass. You are a terrible liar, little journalist."

My throat felt dry. He knew I was lying, but he wasn't angry. Instead, he dropped the keycard back into my bag, his fingers lightly brushing against mine as he did. A sudden, heavy wave of heat shot through my core, making my chest rise and fall rapidly.

"Come," Gabriel said, turning toward a set of double doors at the end of the hall. "Let me buy you a drink."

"I shouldn't," I whispered, though my feet were already moving toward him.

"You walked into the dragon's den on your own," he murmured, opening the door to a luxurious, dimly lit private study overlooking the city skyline. "It's a little late to play cautious."

He poured two fingers of dark amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler and handed it to me. I took the glass, our fingers brushing again. The electricity between us was suffocating. I hated how drawn I was to him. I hated that the man I believed had destroyed my life was the only person in the room who made me feel completely alive.

Gabriel didn't step back after handing me the drink. He stood impossibly close, hovering over me until I was pressed lightly against the edge of his heavy wooden bar. He smelled of cedarwood, rich leather, and faint smoke.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Azeelia," he said, lowering his head until his mouth was inches from my ear. His hot breath sent a shiver straight down my spine. "Curiosity gets people killed in my world."

I lifted my chin, forcing myself to look directly into his storm-grey eyes, refusing to show how deeply his proximity affected me.

"Is that what happened to Ethan?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Did his curiosity get him killed?"

The dark amusement vanished from Gabriel's face. His expression turned completely cold, carved out of stone.

He leaned in closer, his jaw tight, his dark eyes burning into mine.

"Your brother died because he trusted the wrong person," Gabriel said softly, every word heavy with absolute truth. "It wasn’t me."