3 - 1

ADRIANO DE COSTA

Bridget has just taken her oath, but I wish she knew this vow is not just about becoming a member. It is for something else entirely.

Now she is standing in front of me, completely confused. Her lips are slightly parted. Her long black hair falls around her pretty face. Those big eyes are dangerous. She is slim, fair, and undeniably attractive.

“Where will I be staying?” she asks innocently.

Diomio.

I clear my throat. “Wherever I stay, you stay. If I am at the Bellagio Hotel, you stay there. If I go to the mansion, you go there too.”

She nods quietly.

“I need to get my suitcase from the luggage room,” she says, gesturing with her hand.

“I’ll have someone bring it,” I reply.

I take out my phone and call Vinn. “Vinn, get a suitcase from the luggage room for Ms. Bridget Rossi.”

“Sure, boss,” he answers.

I hang up.

“Your suitcase will be brought here. For now, go to the laundry room. All the cleaning supplies are there. Start with the living room, and I’ll tell you what to do next,” I say.

She nods again.

“Bridget,” I call out.

She startles. “Yes, Mr. De Costa?”

I step closer. “I don’t want to see a single speck of dust,” I say firmly. “I will check every corner.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies instantly.

The way she speaks to me so respectfully does something to me. She turns and heads toward the laundry room.

I sit on the edge of my desk near the large windows, looking out at the private pool on my terrace. I pull out some hotel documents and start reviewing them. I also prepare an access badge for Ms. Bridget Rossi so she can enter all my properties. I send her name and photo to my men so they know she works for me now.

A few minutes later, Bridget comes back into the living room. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun. She holds a mop and cleaning products, with a cloth tucked into her pocket. She starts cleaning without looking at me even once.

Good girl. Focused on her work.

I watch the cursor blink on the oversize monitor while my own pulse thumps loud enough to drown the soft tick of the wall clock. Ten a.m. sharp, my preferred hour for clearing ledgers and disciplining men who skim from the casino take. But the numbers blur because Bridget Rossi is on her knees across the marble, wiping the same stretch of skirting board she’s already polished twice. The vacuum lies idle; her rag is only an excuse. She’s bending farther, the jeans stretched drum-tight over her round ass. My cock stirs inside tailored slacks. Control is currency in this house, and right now my attention is the only coin that matters to her.

I lean back, chair groaning under my weight. My inked knuckles drum on the walnut desk, the letters A.C. carved into each finger so no one forgets who owns this territory.

The elevator dings down the corridor. My spine straightens, predator instinct prickling. Staff uses the service stairs, only one person rides that lift this time of day. Lucia. A click of white flats on terrazzo precedes her, the pace decisive, impatient. She wheels her housekeeping cart into view, platinum-blonde tail swinging like a metronome. The white mini dress clings to her narrow waist, apron knot pressing the fabric tighter across her tits. Her gaze slices to me, dark eyes, almost black, unreadable for a single heartbeat, then flicks to Bridget. A microscopic smirk plays at Lucia’s lips, vanishing so fast I might have dreamed it.

She parks the cart outside my bedroom door, unbuckles a spray bottle, and smothers the chrome handle with disinfectant. All unnecessary: my suite was cleaned before dawn. She’s announcing presence, claiming territory. My balls ache. I shove the laptop closed with a soft slap. The sound jerks Bridget upright; she catches my stare, cheeks flushing.

I crook two fingers at Lucia. “Inside.”

She doesn’t ask why. The bottle clicks back into its holster, nails tapping plastic. Bridget’s rag stalls mid-swipe; jealousy radiates like heat off asphalt. Lucia brushes past her without a word, chin lifted. The cart stays in the hall. I follow, shutting the bedroom door with the muted thud of thick oak.

Noise from outside fades, just the hum of centralized air and Lucia’s measured breath. She already stands at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind her, breasts thrust high by posture and by that wicked little knot at her spine. Waiting. A vision of discipline that begs to be broken.

“On your knees.” My voice comes out gravel.

She folds with dancer precision, white flats tucking beneath her thighs, the dress riding just enough to threaten exposure. My belt unbuckles one-handed; leather hisses free. The zipper lowers, my cock thick and heavy as it springs into my fist. Veins pulse beneath the skin; pre-cum beads at the slit. Lucia’s pupils dilate, but she keeps those lips sealed until I brush the crown across them.

Then she opens, warm, wet, tongue already swirling under the head like she’s starving for taste. A low growl climbs my throat. I wind her ponytail twice around my fist, yank until her spine arches and her mouth becomes a sheath for my length. She takes me to the root in one measured glide, throat flexing. My eyes slam shut, but instead of Lucia’s platinum hair I see Bridget’s darker waves, imagine shoving between those plump lips while she kneels on the same marble she polishes. The thought ignites fire in my blood. I thrust, balls slapping Lucia’s chin. She gags beautifully, saliva spilling glossy over my shaft.

“Fuck, yeah—choke on it.” My hips piston, fist tightening in her hair until the strands bite my skin. She hammers back with enthusiasm, nose burying in my pubes each time. Filthy suction noises fill the suite, punctuated by her ragged snorts for air. My cock gleams, coated in thick spit. I picture Bridget standing in the doorway, hand between her legs, shock widening her hazel eyes while I defile Lucia’s mouth. The fantasy detonates urgency low in my gut.

I jerk Lucia off me. She gasps, strings of saliva bridging her lower lip to my crown. Mascara’s already smudged; I want more ruin.

“Stand.”