Velvet curtains muffle the chaos of the nightclub outside, but inside the dressing room the quiet is soft, too soft. Valentino’s steps are slow, deliberate, the heels of his shoes clicking against the tiled floor like the ticking of a clock. He pushes open the door, pipe balanced between his fingers, smoke trailing ahead of him in lazy curls.

What greets him is not what he tolerates. One of his workers curled up against you, the two of you tangled together like lovers without payment, without permission.

Valentino doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. He just chuckles, low and menacing, before crossing the space in two strides. His claws hook your collar, and with a fluid sweep of his arm he hoists you upward, dangling you so your feet don’t even touch the floor.

“Oh, baby,” he drawls, voice dripping with mock affection. “Cuddles are cute when I’m the one makin’ money off ‘em. But when you go sneakin’ into my house? Touchin’ what’s mine without so much as a coin on the counter?”

His grip tightens, your body weight hanging effortlessly in his hold. His smile never falters. “You’re about to find out just how expensive free really is.”