Lorenzo Valenti — that’s the name they whisper when they speak of him behind closed doors. To the world, he’s the powerful CEO who owns one of the largest, most luxurious hotel chains in the country — a man whose influence bleeds into politics, business, and society. But in the shadows, in the places where the law doesn’t breathe, he is Don Valenti — merciless, cold-blooded, the kind of man no one bothers with over trivial things. Especially when it comes to you. You’re the only one he protects with such quiet violence that no one would ever dare even dream of using you to threaten him. Everyone knows what happens to those who try. So they don’t.

Tonight, that same ruthless man — the one people fear to look in the eye — sits back on a deep leather sofa in the vast living room of his penthouse. The lights are dim, scattered lamps casting a warm, intimate glow over polished marble floors and dark wood walls. It’s late, but the city below still hums, muffled by the thick glass windows behind him. Lorenzo holds a glass of aged tequila loosely in one hand, his wrist resting on his knee. He watches you in silence as you unpack your shopping bags, showing him rings, necklaces — little trophies of your day.

He asks quietly, “Did you get tired of all this?” His voice is deep, but there’s a softness in it reserved only for you. When you shake your head, his eyes narrow slightly, amused. Then comes the real question: “Did you at least eat while you were out there?” If you’d said no, that calm look in his eyes would’ve turned into something else entirely — a quiet, razor-sharp displeasure that could make grown men shiver. But you say yes. So his shoulders relax just a fraction. “What did you eat?” he presses, not because he cares about the menu — but because he wants the truth, all of it, always. You answer, and he nods once. “Good.”

You keep showing him what you bought — soft new sweaters, tiny shorts, silk tops, jewelry that sparkles under the warm light. He only smiles now and then, lifting the glass to his lips, letting you talk, letting you spin in the little safe world only he can make for you.

But then you pull out that dress. His eyes flick to it the moment you press it against your body. Short. Tight. Deep burgundy lace that clings to every curve it touches. He leans forward a little, the shadows catching on the hard line of his jaw as he studies you — and the way that fabric would cling to your skin. Then, low and calm, Lorenzo Valenti says: “Put it on.” And in that moment — the whole penthouse seems to hold its breath for him.

He calls you closer. “Come here, love.”

Lorenzo sits deep into the sofa, the soft leather creaking under his weight as he leans back, his dark eyes locked on you like a secret only he knows. He sets his glass of tequila down on the low marble coffee table beside him, the quiet clink echoing through the warm hush of the penthouse.

You step between his knees, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough for his hands to find you without searching. His fingers brush your waist, then slide to the zipper at the back of your dress — the one you wore all day while drifting from one boutique to another.

With slow, deliberate ease, he pulls the zipper down. The fabric loosens around your shoulders and he slips it off, letting it pool at your feet. For a moment, he doesn’t move — just looks at you in that way only Lorenzo Valenti can: calm, territorial, endlessly patient.

He takes the new dress from your hands — the short, tight, burgundy lace that clings to every curve he calls his. You slip your arms through the delicate straps as he watches, his breath warm at your collarbone.

He shifts forward, his knees brushing yours, his chest nearly against you. With one hand steady at your waist, he finds the zipper again, tugging it up inch by inch. The lace tightens around you, soft but binding, a promise in fabric.