Nocturne: Lustbound

Alright, this is starting to get really fucking frustrating.

My phone buzzed again. I didn’t even look this time—I just swiped the call away, sighed like my lungs were exhausted, and typed the same goddamn message I’d sent ten times already.

“Precious, I swear this isn’t funny.”

The wind nipped at my bare skin like icy little teeth. I hugged myself and muttered a string of curses under my breath. “Stupid. Fucking. Weather.”

Why the hell did I decide to wear this tonight?

Black cowl-neck halter top, pleated leather mini skirt, silver-tipped cowboy boots, and a slouchy coat that barely stayed on my shoulders. I looked like I belonged in the club—but out here, I just looked like a walking regret. My gold cross necklace caught the streetlights and blinked at me like it was judging my life choices.

If my dad saw me right now, he'd fucking skin me alive. No, worse—he’d have someone skin me alive, slowly, while he sipped Chianti and read the newspaper.

I laughed to myself, not out loud, just a little dry chuckle in my chest. Half from frustration, half from nerves. This whole thing was a bad idea, and I knew it, and yet… here I was.

My phone rang again.

"God—fucking—damn it!" I hissed, switching it off and gripping it tight like I wanted to crush it in my hand. "Emilio, leave me the fuck alone."

I knew it was him. It had to be. Emilio never called. He always just showed up. But ever since I bought this new burner phone for tonight—because I know my dad bugged the other one—Emilio's been creeping out. Probably pacing around wherever he is like a bloodhound that’s lost its scent.

How did he even get this number?

I sighed, then shook my head. Who am I kidding? My family could get a bunny to spill state secrets if they wanted. They’d torture a priest for the weather forecast.

Brooklyn was quieter than I expected for a Friday night. The streets weren’t dead, but they weren’t alive either. Just a strange hum, like the city was holding its breath. And I was the only idiot out here playing dress-up in the middle of Giordanos turf without backup.

No Emilio. No tinted car waiting down the block. Just me, freezing my ass off in an outfit I regret and heels that pinch, with the stupid hope that no one recognizes me as Francesca Falcone, daughter of Vittorio—the Don himself.

And Precious? That two-faced bitch left me here like this, knowing damn well what’s at stake.

The music from the club pounded against the air like it was trying to break through the walls. Bass so heavy it made the sidewalk vibrate. Neon lights spilled out in sharp colors—blue, red, pink—flashing like sirens in a fever dream, but the fun stayed locked inside. Out here, it was just shadows and tension.

A couple of cars crawled by slow. Too slow. Either lost or looking for trouble. No one who knows this turf drives this slow unless they want to send a message—or get shot.

Some guys on foot passed by, gave me the usual disgusting looks, one of them whistled. “Looking good, baby!”

I gave him a dead-eyed smirk and a sarcastic nod. Thanks for the reminder, I thought. This is exactly what I signed up for.

The two bodyguards by the club entrance stood like stone statues. Knights in black suits guarding the gates to hell. Except hell was full of horny teenagers, washed-up men looking for something to feel alive again, and girls trying to look older than they were.

Then the doors opened.

Someone stepped out.

Cream shirt, slightly fitted. Sleeves hit just below the elbow. New jeans—expensive ones too, still had the damn tag on it. What a joke. He looked like he was trying to stay lowkey, but you don’t wear $300 jeans to stay lowkey.

I didn’t look directly, but I saw him. From the corner of my eye. Not like there was anything else to look at out here.

He stopped a few feet away, leaned on the railing like he was just here to catch his breath. Frustrated face. Probably some introvert dragged into this shitshow by an overly-hyped best friend. Happens.

His head tilted. He looked at me.

That’s when I lost interest.

I looked away, turned my phone back on, and there it was.

24 missed calls. 15 texts. All from the same number.

The screen lit up like an emergency alert. "Just answer. I need to know you're safe."

I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath, “Jesus, Emilio, relax. I’m not kidnapped. Yet.”

Then I texted Precious again:

“I hate when you do this. I’m going back home.”

I don't think I saw a cigarette with him when he came out but even from the distance, I could see the smoke. I should have known all of this would bite me in the ass later but I didn't know what to do, to wait for precious or just go in on my own'.

I heard a stump from where the smoker was and after I took a sharp glance, I saw him moving closer to me.

“You are alone.”

The voice came smooth and low—like velvet with a blade underneath. I flinched before I could hide it, not expecting it to come from so close.

I turned slightly. Pale. That was the first thing I noticed. Tall too or maybe I'm just short, lean, a little too sharp around the edges. The kind of man Precious would call a cut too dangerous to bleed for.

He stood a few feet away, just outside the glow of the club’s pinkish neon.

“…Thanks?” I said, but it came out more like a question. What was I thanking him for—observing the obvious?

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.

“Is that a compliment?” I asked, trying to add an edge of sarcasm.

Silence. His eyes stayed fixed on me. Deep-set, unreadable. Almost black.

I looked away first. My heart did that thing again—it stuttered when I realized it.

“Are you… trying something?” I asked, crossing my arms.

“You look like you are… waiting,” he said finally. His words slow, precise, like someone testing a language on their tongue. The accent was thick, Eastern European maybe. Romanian? I’d heard it once in a film class, but he wasn’t slurring. His English was clean—just old, like he’d learned it in a church basement or something.

“I am waiting,” I said. “For someone. A friend. Who apparently hates me.”

He tilted his head a little, as if studying the term.

“Hates…?”

“It’s sarcasm,” I added.

“I do not know sarcasm,” he said.

Of course you don’t.

“Look, whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. I’ve seen this scene before. Creepy guy at a corner, offers the pretty girl a night of unforgettable regret—”

“Pretty girl,” he interrupted gently.

I stopped. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something oddly sincere in the way he said it. As if he meant it, but had no idea it wasn’t the right moment to say so.

“You are strange,” I muttered. “And your teeth…”

I squinted, trying not to stare. Were those—? No. Just the light.

“I only meant,” he said, slowly now, “that this place… not safe. For someone like you.”

I laughed once, dryly. “Someone like me?”

He took one step closer "I dare say you are young and inexperienced, come with me"

“Inexperienced?” I huffed a dry laugh. “Guess that’s my curse. You sound just like my fucking dad.”

He gave a thoughtful nod, eyes never quite locking with mine. “Fathers and curses,” he said. “They do tend to come in pairs.”

“Tell me about it,” I muttered.

He smiled again. A soft one this time. Not wide. Not threatening. Just... knowing.

“Come,” he said gently. “You deserve a little fun tonight. Just a drink.”

I hesitated. He didn’t grab me. Didn’t lean in. Just stood there, waiting, as though this decision had always been mine.

“What’s the catch?” I asked, arms still folded.

“No catch,” he said. “Only a story to tell later. Or not.”

A part of me didn’t trust him. The other part didn’t trust myself not to follow.

I looked at his hand. It was cold out, but he wasn’t wearing a jacket. He wasn’t shivering. I tried not to notice the way his fingers looked too pale, too still. I tried not to notice how close his mouth had lingered when he spoke.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

A pause.

“…Lucian.”