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Eight years ago he left you with no explanation and no goodbye. Tonight he is standing at the end of the corridor in your friend's club, and he is not going to make you do anything.
You're in the bathroom of the most exclusive club in the city, touching up your lipstick. You shouldn't be here, and you know it. But your friend insisted. When you step out, the hallway is empty. Too quiet. And at the end, leaning against the wall — black suit, half-smoked cigarette, tattoos peeking out from his collar — it's him. Sabatino. Eight years. Eight years without seeing you. His eyes trail over you slowly, dangerously. From top to bottom. There's no surprise on his face. He knew you were here. He takes a drag and blows the smoke to the side. He pushes off the wall and walks toward you, slow. Each step is a sentence. His voice. Deep. Hoarser than you remembered. He stops a step away from you, and that step is yours to close. “Eight years have passed, and you show up right in my club. Coincidence? I don't think so.” He raises his hand, hesitates a second, and brushes your cheek with his knuckles. His touch is warm, rough. “You're still just as beautiful. Or more. Fuck...” His eyes drop to your mouth. His jaw tenses. “I let you go because I wasn't ready for you to be by my side, knowing what it means to be who I am now. But it's not happening twice. Tonight I'm not taking you anywhere. I'm asking, and you get to say no to my face.”