Scene 4: The VIP Room Deepens

The VIP room of Inferno hums with tension, the amber light casting soft shadows over Luna and Endrit.
Luna sits on Endrit’s lap, her arms loosely around his neck, her face flushed pink as she tries to hide in the crook of his shoulder. His hand rests on her waist, possessive yet restrained, his dark eyes drinking in her every reaction.
Her innocence—those Bambi eyes, those damn chubby, squishable cheeks, that stupidly sweet pink frock—has ensnared him, and he feels the weight of an obsession he can’t shake.
Luna’s heart races, torn between fear and a strange, naive trust in the man who holds her fate.

A sharp buzz cuts through the thick silence—Endrit’s phone vibrating on the sofa.
Luna, ever polite, assumes it’s rude to stay so close during a call. She shifts, murmuring, “I-I’ll sit over there, sir,” her voice soft and respectful, the “sir” slipping out naturally because of his age and overwhelming presence.
She starts to slide off his lap, but Endrit’s hand tightens on her waist, his eyes flashing with irritation. He raises his gun slightly, the metal catching the light.
“Move without my permission again, cara, and I won’t be so kind,” he says, voice low, edged with warning.
Luna freezes, her eyes wide, and nods quickly. “I’m sorry, sir,” she whispers, settling back onto his lap, her blush deepening, making her cheeks puff adorably like a sulky kitten.

The phone buzzes again, insistent.
Endrit sighs, his gaze lingering on her before he pulls her closer, positioning her securely on one side of his lap.
He answers the call, his voice cold and authoritative as he speaks in clipped Italian about a “shipment” and “delays in Istanbul.”
Luna, too nervous to listen closely, focuses on his hand resting on her lap. Her eyes catch the tattoo on his knuckles—a delicate design of interwoven flowers, an odd contrast to his brutal aura.
Curiosity overrides her fear, and she hesitantly traces the ink with a trembling finger, wondering how much it must have hurt.
The gesture is innocent, almost childlike, and Endrit’s breath hitches, though he doesn’t interrupt his call.

As the conversation drags on, Endrit’s free hand moves to Luna’s hair, his fingers threading through the glossy strands.
He massages her scalp gently, a surprisingly tender act that makes Luna’s eyes flutter.
The warmth of his touch, the rhythm of his voice, and the exhaustion of the night weigh on her.
Her eyelids droop, and she slumps against him, her face nestling into the crook of his neck.
Her legs shift, resting across his lap, her frock riding up slightly to reveal the edge of her thigh.
Luna falls asleep, her breathing soft and even, her body fully relaxed against him for the first time.

Endrit continues the call for another half-hour, his voice steady but his attention divided.
When he finally hangs up, he looks down at Luna, her peaceful face illuminated by the soft light.
His breath catches. Her cheeks are impossibly soft and rounded, pressed lightly against his chest, making her look even younger, more vulnerable. They’re the kind of cheeks that demanded to be squeezed, kissed, even bitten—and the primal need to mark her, to brand her, claws at his gut.
Her frock has slipped higher, exposing a glimpse of her white panties, and the sight stirs a primal heat in him.
But more than lust, it's the unbearable sweetness of her that cuts him deeper—like she was crafted solely to ruin men like him.
For the first time in years, he feels something beyond rage or control—a quiet bliss, a contentment that unsettles him.
He wraps his arms around her, holding her close, and murmurs, “My precious treasure.” His voice is barely audible, a vow to himself.
In that moment, he thanks the universe for sending her—this perfect, fragile gift who’s already rewriting his world.

Careful not to wake her, Endrit stands, cradling Luna in his arms.
Her head rests against his chest, her frock slipping slightly to reveal the edge of her shoulder.
She’s so soft—he feels it everywhere. Her body molds against him like she was made to fit there, her chubby cheeks squished adorably against his shirt, making his heart throb with a feral kind of affection.
He carries her toward the club’s back exit, his mind set on taking her to his private villa—a fortress where no one can touch her.

At the back door, his driver waits, and Marco, his right-hand man, approaches, his eyes widening at the sight of his boss carrying a sleeping girl.
“Boss, need me to take her? She looks heavy,” Marco says, tone practical.

Endrit’s expression darkens, a lethal edge flashing in his eyes.
“Touch her, and you’re dead,” he snarls, his voice low but venomous.
“No one looks at my woman, let alone lays a hand on her.”
Marco steps back instantly, hands raised in apology.

Luna stirs at the noise, a soft whimper escaping her lips, her brow furrowing.
Endrit’s demeanor shifts in a heartbeat.
He softens, bouncing her gently in his arms, whispering, “Shh, cara, sleep.”
His voice is a soothing rumble, and Luna sighs, nuzzling closer, her arms tightening around his neck.

Endrit slides into the backseat of his black SUV, keeping Luna cradled protectively on his lap.
The driver starts the engine, the city lights blurring past as they head toward his villa.
Luna’s frock shifts again, one sleeve slipping to reveal the soft curve of her collarbone, a hint of her chest visible.
Endrit’s gaze lingers, his hand brushing her thigh, his touch light but deliberate.

Luna stirs, a soft moan escaping her lips as she shifts in her sleep, her body responding instinctively.
Endrit’s jaw tightens, his desire warring with a newfound urge to protect her innocence.
He pulls her closer, his hand resting possessively on her hip, and vows to keep her safe—even from himself, if he must.