The Demon’s Claim

Seated in his opulent bedroom, surrounded by the trappings of old money and new-world sophistication, Emanuele De Luca, the formidable don of Italy, exuded an aura of power and refinement. Cradling a delicate demitasse in his manicured hands, which seemed at odds with the intricate tattoos that snaked up his wrist. He sipped rich, bold espresso.

His brother, Cassiano has arrived in New York, awaiting the signal to eliminate Alessandro Rossi, Morano's loyaltist.

"Cassiano, fratello," Emanuel said via encrypted phone call. "The time has come. Take care of Rossi at the TMR fashion show Make it clean."

"Sì, Don Emanuele," Cassiano replied, his voice firm. "Consider it done, fratello."

The plan was too eliminate Rossi, maintain De Luca power, prevent Morano's expansion, send a message to the rival family.

"My men are already on their way to NewYork."

"Va bene," cassiano replied, his Italian acctent smooth over the phone line. (Alright)

Emanuele knew his brother can do it alone. He just sent men as precaution, knowing Cassiano's softhearted nature. Cassiano was strong yes, but he was too compassionate for a billionaire and the brother of the don.

As the phone call ended, Emanuele threw his head back, his eyes fixed on the intricate that adorned the ceiling. His mind lingered on the conversation, but another thought consumed him.

His gaze drifted to the massive painting dominating the wall. The girl. His girl. The one who had driven him mad with desire.

Emanuele's eyes burned with intensity. He would have her, but not yet.

With a swift motion, Emanuele unbuckled his belt, his hands moving to his trousers. He freed himself, his eyes never leaving the painting.

He stroked his length, a low grunt escaping his lip. Women would do anything to be in his bed, to be desired by him. But since laying eyes on her again, no woman had satisfied him.

Emanuele's stroke quickened, his breathing heavy.

"Why must you torment me, amor?" He whispered, his voice husky.

His imagination ran wild, her lips, soft inviting, her curves, sensual and alluring, her eyes sparkling with desire.

As he pleasured himself, Emanuele envisioned her beneath him, surrendering to his touch.

"Mine," he growled, his release nearing.

The room faded, leaving only her image and his consuming passion.

Emanuele's climax crashed over him, his body shuddering.

Breathless, he collapsed into his chair, his gaze still fixed on her painting.

The obsession burned brighter, an unrelenting flame.

.....

Odetta Wynter's Apartment, Brooklyn, NYC, 8pm.

Her house was huge, with glass windows and doors that offered a breathtaking view of the city. The modern design or the sleek lines seemed to blend seamlessly with the old-money charm that lingered in every detail. The glass walls provided a sense of transparency, yet the tinted windows ensured her privacy, allowing her to see out without being seen.

Odetta made her way upstairs to her bedroom, the soft glow of the evening lights casting a warm ambiance. She glanced around, expecting to see Saskia, lounging on the couch or chatting on the phone. But she was nowhere to be seen.

She was probably at her house, or the club, dancing away, or maybe she was out with some guy. Odetta shrugged, not worrying too much about her friend's whereabouts.

She shed her clothes, her body craving release. She sank into her plush couch, eyes closed.

Her slender fingers traced her curves, teasing her skin. She slid her fingertip across her collarbone, down to her nipples, and farther south, her breath hitched as she reached her destination.

With a gentle touch, she parted her lips, revealing her swollen clit. Odetta's eyes fluttered close, her lashes grazing her cheeks. She moaned softly, her hips tilting upward.

Her fingers danced, stroking her wet folds. The dildo waited, poised for entry. Odetta's back arched, her body begging for satisfaction.

"Ahh, yes…." She breathed, her voice barely audible.

The dildo slid in, and Odetta's hips lifted, meeting each gentle thrust. Her wetness coated the silicone, her muscles contracting with pleasure.

Odetta's moans grew louder, filling the room. Her body trembled, on the cusp of release.

She threw her head back, arching her spine. The climax crashed over her, waves of ecstasy rippling through her core.

"Fuck…" Odetta shouted, her voice husky and satisfied.

Her body shuddered, releasing the tension. She collapsed onto the couch spent.

The room felt silent except for her ragged breathing.

...

Odetta woke up with a start, her heart racing, and her mind foggy from the vivid dream that had shaken her awake. She was still on the couch, but now it was drenched in sweat.

As she sat up, she couldn't shake off the feeling. This wasn't just a dream. It felt so real.

Those piercing blue eyes, flecked with grey, burning into her soul.

The low husky voice that always whispered to her.

"Not again," she groaned, frustration and fear mingling.

She slowly stood up, planting her feet firmly on the ground. The room spun momentarily, and she waited for her stability to return.

Odetta shook off the lingering thoughts, focusing on the excitement of the day. Today was the TMR fashion show in Brooklyn, NYC, and her designs would be showcased.

She rushed through her morning routine, her mind buzzing with anticipation.

As she arrived at the venue, the energy was electric. Models, designers, and stylist scurried about, preparing for the big event.

Odetta's assistant, Jennny, greeted her with a warm smile. "You're gonna kill it today! Your designs are stunning."

Odetta beamed, confidence boosting her nerves. She stood confidently near her designs, her long white jumpsuit - a signature piece from her 'Eternal Elegance' collection- hugged her curves perfectly. The white heels added a touch of sophistication.

Her hair, tied in a sleek ponytail, showcased her pearl earrings and necklace. The expensive diamond watch on her wrist glimmered under the bright lights.

Today was the Teresa Morano runway fashion show and her designs would shine.

Odetta's brand, "Elysée" was making waves in the fashion world.

As she inspected her collection, ensuring every detail was flawless, the buzz around her grew.

Suddenly, the emcee's voice filled the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Teresa Morano fashion show! First up Elysée!"

The lights dimmed, and the music paused.

Her models strutted down the catwalk, her designs shimmering under the spotlight.

The crowd gasped in awe, and Odetta's heart swelled with pride.