“Oh, the rules don’t apply tous, angel,” Luca tells me, pulling me close.
His whole demeanor has changed; I hadn’t even noticed till now how straight and stiff his body is all the time these days, with the stress of the Morelli Family making him a taut line. But now he’s fluid and relaxed, winding his arms around me as he leads me past the cloakroom to the inner doors of the club. They open for us like magic, two enormous fucking dudes on the other side pulling open a door each.
The club is already packed, the stink of a few hundred men coated with aftershave, hair wax and plasticky glitter rising up from the crowd like steam. Time winds back and I squeeze Luca’s hand in mine, pulling him straight to the dance floor. We’re surrounded immediately, hot bodies bumping and rubbing against us, the holy euphoria of the dance coming over us.
I’ve missed this. I didn’t even realize until now how much I’ve missed this. Moving with the crowd, anonymous bodies pressing against me, the joy and celebration ofbeing. Just the here and now, nothing else on my mind.
I haven’t come out dancing like this since before we got married. I wondered, sometimes, if going to a club like this might make me urge to snort something, drop something, smoke something. But there’s nothing like that. My brain chemicals are spiking all on their own, a strange serotonin rush that makes me throw my arms around Luca’s neck with joy.
He pulls me close, one thigh between mine. “Thank you,” I say in his ear, hoping he can hear me over the music. I know he has when he tugs me even closer, one hand grabbing at my ass, the other at the back of my neck, and he starts sucking on my collarbone like—like we’re six years younger and don’t give a shit who sees our hickey marks.
I haven’t felt this free since the first night I met him.
* * *
We’ve danced for hours,broken only to rehydrate, and it takes a while for me to realize that the drinks are always provided gratis. “Bartender must like your pretty face,” I say to Luca when he turns to give me my cherry cola.
“You enjoying yourself?”
“You know I am.”
He leans in to give me a quick lick up the side of the neck. “You sure taste better than that first night we met. You used to sweat chemicals.”
“Yeah, I was pretty well-preserved internally,” I say. I don’t spend much time thinking about all the drugs and the drinking and the sex from those years. My life was empty before I met Luca, and I filled it up with false highs. Then it was even worse for five years after that, because for one night I saw what Icouldhave had.
Luca takes out his phone and glances at a message there with a frown. “Time for us to go, baby bird.”
I pout. “But I wanna dance some more.”
“I get it, angel. Only remember what happened after we danced last time?”
“There were a bunch of Clemenzas who tried to kill you in the back alley—oh. Shit.”
“You said it.”
“We heading out the same way?”
“Not this time.” He takes my hand. “I don’t ever want to ask you to put your life on the line for me, baby bird. Never again.”
“I would, though,” I tell him. God help me, I would. That death wish that kept me warm all those years without him is gone now. Idon’twant to die. I want to live a long and happy life with Luca D’Amato. But I would still take a bullet for him, if I had to.
He kisses me hard, then squeezes my hand. “I know,” he says fondly. “But tonight, we do what youshouldhave done that night, but didn’t.”
I raise my eyebrows, questioning.
“We run.”
With that, he pulls me quickly to the other side of the club, weaving in and out of bodies, the strobing lights turning everything into second-long movie scenes. I glance back towards the door and see a fight’s broken out—the two massive bouncers are trading blows with three or four men.
No shots, at least.
“The back door—” I shout to Luca, because we’re going the wrong way, but he just pulls me on to a door in the side of the wall, a door brandedStaff Only. We disappear into it, then Luca pulls me left to a staircase that leads up, turns, up again. I wonder if we’re heading to the roof, and picture myself running across New York rooftops like some superhero. Or supervillain, I guess.
But at the top of the stairs is another door, this one markedOFFICE.
“Baby, we can’t just barge in there,” I say, but I’m grinning and ready to burst in and see what’s behind Door Number One.
“Oh, didn’t I mention?” he asks, eyes twinkling. “The new owner of this place—it’s me.”
