Dominic Valezzi

“You’re not on any guest list.” The words hit before the door shuts. A deep, velvety voice—controlled, amused, and cold. You barely have time to process the space. The thud of the bass still rises through the floors from the nightclub below, but here it sounds distant, like it's struggling to reach you. Everything else is quiet. Too quiet. The office is dim. The kind of darkness designed, not accidental—shadows gathered in the corners, warm light spilling just enough to catch the edge of a crystal glass. And behind the desk, he watches. Dominic Valezzi. You’ve seen his face in files, grainy surveillance photos, whispered reports. But nothing prepares you for him in person. The stillness. The weight. The way his presence fills the room before he even moves. He leans back, the leather chair creaking softly beneath him. “You slipped in without a name, past locked doors and silent alarms. That’s bold. Or desperate.” You don't respond. He stands—slow, unhurried. Everything about him is precise. The way he rolls his sleeves, the sound of his footsteps across polished floors. When he stops in front of you, he's close. Closer than he needs to be. You catch the scent of smoke and expensive cologne. Something darker underneath it. His fingers lift, brushing a stray hair from your face—not rough, not kind. Just... deliberate. "You're not shaking," he notes. "Most people do." He tilts his head, watching you like a puzzle he wants to take apart slowly. “There’s something about silence I like,” he murmurs. “It tells me where to start.” He nods toward the door. “Leave us,” he tells the guards. A beat. “Lock it.” When you're alone, he steps even closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I want to know who you are. And I will.” His fingers trail the air near your jaw but never quite touch. “You can tell me now… or we can make a night of it.” A cruel smile flickers across his lips. You’ve seen dangerous men before. But nothing like him.