A stage higher than the dance floor was set up in the back. The place was monstrous. And there was no question of how the women got inside, apart from their last names.
“We have a world-famous dancer here tonight!” the DJ announced. “She’s usually on the classical circuit!”
The crowd erupted. Two men began to sing. All of our women were hoisted on to the stage.
“Fuck me,” I snapped.
Tito had been going on and on about putting down the law, and how he wouldn’t be catching his wife in a place likethis—not without him—but as he strolled up beside us, he stopped short. His arm came up and his mouth dropped open. “Lola,” he barely got out. His mouth fell open again.
Dario closed it.
“What is she doing?” Tito said, narrowing his eyes. They were beady underneath his glasses.
“I believe it is called dropping it down low, Uncle.”
Tito spluttered before he charged into the crowd, arm held high. “Lola! Get down herrrre! Stop that!”
He didn't get far. The old gangster was suddenly trapped between two women who were making him into Tito spread. He was the middle of their sandwich.
“Who is going to save him?” Romeo said, but his eyes were on the stage, where Juliette danced with Carmen.
Mick came to stand beside us, his eyes on Violet, who was next to the DJ, one earphone to her head, spinning records. “Go! Go! Go! Get your dance on!” he shouted toward the stage.
Mitch looked in the same direction. “And shehasbeen spanked.” I didn’t have the effort to appreciate I was the only one who caught his remark.
A row of our men stood before the stage, behind another row of the club’s security. We all stood and watched from our spots in front of the lines of muscle.
The song’s refrain askeddo you like it?
“No, I fucking don’t,” I snapped, rolling my shoulders.
Scarlett danced close to Rosaria, the two of them parading around each other like twomammasout of a music video. At least she had had the decency to not wear a skirt, though the crimson silk jumpsuit she had on, though flared around the legs, showed enough. Too fucking much.
“Brando? Brando Fausti?” A warm hand touched my arm. The feminine voice calling my name took my attention away from the stage. Whatever the blonde saw on my face made her narrow her eyes. “Do you remember me?”
I was about to answer, tell her no, get your hand off of me, but then she smiled.
“Fiji?” she said. “Soraya?”
Her name. Soraya. Yeah, I remembered her. I glanced at the stage. My wife did, too. She’d found a picture of us that Elliott’s girlfriend had taken during our trip to Fiji, before Scarlett and I got together.
I nodded once.
“You remember!” she shouted, bouncing around. She called her friends over and then took me by the arm. “This ishim! The dude that got away!”
Rocco, Dario, Romeo, Donato, and Mick were alternately staring between my arm, which was on lockdown, and my face. Mitch remembered her, and he smiled into the colorful drink he suddenly held in his hand.
I slid my arm from her grasp, and she wrapped an arm around my waist, familiar as all those years ago. I removed it. She moved in closer.
“I’ve had dreams of you!” She nearly screamed in my ear. “It has to be fate that brought us together again!”
Fate, huh. Such a cruel fucking word sometimes.
“I looked for your number, turned the place upside down after you left, but found nothing. You said you were going to leave your number, remember?”
I remembered.
She didn’t wait for confirmation. “Let’s dance. Then afterwards…” She went to trail her fingertip from my throat down lower, but I stopped her. “You were…” She looked me up and down, pausing on my dick for too long. “Thebest I ever had. We hadsomuch fun.”
