Club Notte Oscura, 3:03 a.m.
The air is thick with smoke, sweat, and the sort of sin that clings onto skin long after you leave.
The masked woman they refer to as "La Monaca Nera"—the Black Nun, moves across the private stage like liquid blasphemy.
Tonight she wears only a sheer black veil that skims her hips, a tiny silver crucifix nestled between her breasts, and the mask: matte black lace that covers the upper half of her face, leaving her mouth bare and glistening.
No one in Palermo knows the mouth behind that mask belongs to Sister Alexia Draven of the Convent of Santa Lucia. No one except the man she has been summoned to serve.
Luca Moretti sits alone in the velvet dark of the VIP booth, shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, gold San Michele medal glinting against olive skin. His soldiers have been dismissed. Tonight the king wants his offering in private.
From the moment she steps onto the platform, Alexia can feel his stare like a physical weight. Already her pulse races beneath the veil; she was told only one thing when the Mother Superior's note arrived at dawn:
Tonight you will dance for Signor Moretti. You will please him. You will not remove the mask.
Disobey and the convent burns.
She makes her way down the three steps in a slow, hip-rolling prowl, thighs brushing with every step. The music is slow, filthy trap-808s that vibrate straight between her legs. When she reaches him, she doesn't say a word. Just straddles his lap, knees sinking into the leather on either side of his thighs, and starts to move.
First, Luca's hands remain on the couch, knuckles white. Good. Let him suffer a little.
She rolls her body in a slow wave, breasts brushing his chest, the crucifix dragging across his open shirt. Her veil is so sheer he can see the dark outline of her nipples, stiff and begging. She grinds down once, twice, feeling the steel-hard length of him straining against his slacks. A low, involuntary moan slips from her throat—soft, desperate, impossible to fake.
His control snaps.
Large hands clamp onto her waist, digging into bare skin hard enough to bruise. He yanks her flush against him, forcing her to feel every thick inch of what she's done to him.
"Careful, little nun," he growls against the edge of the mask, his voice rough with Sicilian gravel. "You're playing with the devil tonight."
Alexia answers by rotating her hips in a slow, filthy circle, coating the front of his slacks with the wetness already dripping down her thighs. Another moan-this one louder, shameless. The veil rides higher; cool air kisses her exposed pussy and she shivers.
Luca's right hand slides down, cups her ass, spreads her open so the lips of her sex drag over the ridge of his cock through the fabric. His left hand fists in the veil at her nape, tilts her head back so the line of her throat is offered like communion.
"Tell me your name," he demands, teeth scraping the frantic pulse beneath her jaw.
She shakes her head once. Never. The mask stays on. Those are the rules.
His laugh is dark, dangerous. "Then I'll just have to fuck it out of you."
He surges up, lifting her as if she weighs nothing, and flips their positions. Suddenly she's on her back across the wide leather couch, veil bunched at her waist, thighs forced wide by his hips. The mask is still in place, but the veil is ripped away in one brutal tug.
Cool air hits her slick folds and she gasps.
Luca looms over her, black eyes glittering. He doesn't undress. He simply frees himself-thick, heavy cock jutting from his open fly, flushed and leaking at the tip. The sight steals her breath.
He drags the blunt head through her wetness, coating himself and teasing her clit until her back arches clear off the couch.
"Beg," he says simply.
Alexia's lips part beneath the mask. The word is a broken prayer.
"Please…"
He thrusts into the hilt in one savage stroke.
There is no gentleness, no pause for adjustment. Just the thick, burning stretch of him splitting her open while the bass line throbs in time with his hips. She cries out-raw, filthy, the sound swallowed by the music and the roar of her own blood. His hand clamps over her mouth through the lace of the mask, muffling her screams as he sets a punishing rhythm.
Every thrust slams her into the leather. The crucifix bounces between her breasts with every impact, a mocking reminder of who she's supposed to be. Luca's other hand pins both her wrists above her head, stretching her body taut so he can watch himself disappear into her again and again.
"Look at you," he snarls, voice ragged. "Taking mafia cock like you were born for it. My perfect little whore in a habit."
He adjusts the angles, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside her that makes white-hot pleasure spark behind her eyes. Her legs wrap around his waist on instinct, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. The wet sounds of their fucking are obscene, louder than the music to her ears.
He releases her mouth only to fist her hair, yanking her head to the side so he can bite down on that soft spot beneath her ear. The sting sends her over the edge-she comes with a strangled wail, pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that leave her shaking and tear-streaked beneath the mask.
Luca groans, his hips stuttering, but he doesn't follow her. Not yet. He wants more.
He pulls out abruptly, flips her onto her stomach, and hauls her hips up until she's on her knees, chest pressed against the leather. One brutal thrust and he's buried again, deeper from this angle, the head of his cock kissing her cervix with every snap of his hips.
His hand slides beneath her, fingers finding her swollen clit, rubbing in tight, ruthless circles.
"Again," he orders. "Come on my cock again while the whole club wishes they were me."
She's sobbing now, overwhelmed, but her body obeys. The second orgasm rips through her harder than the first, back bowing, toes curling, a rush of wetness coating his balls as he fucks her through it.
Luca's rhythm falters. His grip turns bruising.
"Fuck- gonna fill this cunt up, gonna-
He's right there, cock swelling inside her, one more thrust away from spilling deep—
When the lights cut to blood-red and the emergency sirens scream.
Fire.
The word ripples through the club like a gunshot. People start running. Someone yells that the kitchen is ablaze. Smoke is already curling under the VIP curtains, thick and acrid.
Luca freezes, buried to the root, breathing hard. For one suspended second their eyes meet through the mask, his black with fury and unspent lust, hers wide with sudden terror.
She shoves at his chest, panic overriding everything.
"I have to go"
He tries to hold her, cock still throbbing inside her. "Alexia"
The sound of her real name is like a bucket of ice water. She scrambles off him, off the couch, snatching the torn veil from the floor to cover herself. Her thighs are slick with her own arousal and his precum, shaking so hard she almost falls.
Luca reaches for her again, shirt hanging open, cock still out and painfully hard, glistening with her.
"Stay. I'll get you out safe—"
"No!" The word is a sob. If anyone sees her face, if anyone realizes
Sister Alexia was just fucked senseless by Luca Moretti in front of half of Palermo's underworld, the convent, her vows, her life everything ends tonight.
She bolts.
Barefoot, half-naked, clutching the veil to her chest, she shoves through the stampeding crowd. Smoke stings her eyes. Someone grabs her arm, she yanks free, mask still miraculously in place. She can feel Luca behind her, roaring her name, but the crush of bodies carries her toward the emergency exit.
The last thing she hears before the night swallows her is his voice, raw with rage and promise:
"This isn't over, Sister. I know exactly where to find you."
She disappears into the chaos, her legs shaking, pussy still clenching around the ghost of him, heart pounding with the certainty that Luca Moretti never leaves anything-or anyone-unclaimed.
Especially not the nun who just left him aching, desperate, and more dangerous than ever.