No matter how many times we go over it, none of us can figure out why Finn Kearney looks familiar. In the end, I text Vito and ask him to do a background check. Maybe that’ll spark something.
Although I don’t expect Vito to have answers immediately, I frown when after ten minutes I still haven’t heard from him. I get up and walk over to the glass overlooking the main floor below.
Suddenly, the lights disappear, and the entire club is cloaked in darkness. “What the fuck,” I growl, annoyed with whatever is happening.
“Happy birthday, cousin,” Enzo chuckles.
“Yes, happy birthday,” Rafe adds.
Their words barely register as spotlights begin sweeping across the main stage. A hush falls, anticipation crackling through the air like static electricity.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” A woman’s voice comes through the speakers. It takes me a second to realize it’s Kayla talking. “The Leone Room proudly presents a very special surprise tonight. To celebrate Matteo’s birthday, we give you the Seven Deadly Sins.”
In three strides, I’m out of the office and in the hallway that stretches empty in both directions. The dark wallpaper absorbs what little light there is like a black hole. I take the private staircase down to the main floor, emerging near the VIP section.
The Leone Room thrums with energy tonight, bodies pressed close in anticipation of something. I weave through the crowd, people instinctively creating space without me having to say a word.
Music swells as seven figures appear on stage, silhouetted against… “I didn’t even realize we had pink lighting,” I observe dryly. The comment is aimed at my cousins, who I know followed me down here.
Six of the women are dressed identically in black tops, shorts, and long boots. The one in the middle stands out. Her entire outfit is pink. Fucking pink. Each of them is wearing a top hat that obscures their faces and hides their hair.
The dancers move in perfect synchronization, gloved hands sliding down their bodies in teasing invitation. As one, they turn and keep their backs to the audience. They sway their hips while putting their arms around each other as they get lower… lower… and lower still.
Still with their backs to the audience, the dancers take off their tops. Then they remove their top hats with a theatrical flourish, sending cascades of different colored hair tumbling free. Blonde, red, brunette, blue, purple, and pink.
Fuck, why does all this pink make me think about Raven? Is it because of the pink in her nipple piercings?
The one all the way on the left lifts her hair first, showing her bare back. Then the next one does the same, and the next follows suit until all seven have completed the move.
When they all place their right arm on the shoulder next to them and shimmy their hips, the one in the middle does so more exaggeratedly than the rest. That’s all I need to know to figure out who owns that perfect ass.
Raven. My Little Thief is up there, dancing for the entire club to see.
The dancers take a few steps back, their heels flirting with the edge of the stage. My heart stops, then kicks into a gallop as every one of them spins so they’re facing the audience.
Their faces stay downcast, making it impossible to see their features. The dancer on the far right is the first to move. She slides her hat up from her hip and lifts it to her chest in one fluid, teasing sweep before tipping her chin up to meet the crowd.
One by one, the others follow. Not in a neat line this time—once the reveal reaches the woman beside the center, the pattern reverses, the dancer on the far left stepping in to mirror the move.
It’s a quick cascade of lifted hats and lifted gazes, a domino of bodies coming into focus, until only the woman in the middle remains concealed.
The music changes, and just as Happy Birthday To You comes through the speakers, she finally shows her face.
And there she is; my Little Thief. The woman I love. The very one I itch to pull away from all the hungry stares. I’m both turned on and so fucking angry I could rip this place apart.
My hands grip the nearby railing until my knuckles turn white, the metal creaking under pressure that could bend it if I don’t control myself.
She belongs to me. And… she fucking lied to me. She’s not sick at all. The thought crashes through my mind, drowning everything else in its wake.
I watch as she performs a complicated move, dropping into a split that makes the crowd roar with approval. Her smile is radiant, confident, alive with the thrill of attention. She’s fucking perfect. And she’s mine.
My possessiveness explodes into jealousy and rage so potent I taste copper in the back of my throat. Every pair of eyes on her body is an offense. Every whistle, every shout, every leering gaze is too fucking much.
The dancers move toward the edge of the stage, extending hands to select audience members in invitation. I’m still ten feet away when I see it—a man in the front row grabbing Raven’s outstretched hand.
Not waiting to be chosen.Taking.Taking what’s fucking mine.
He pulls her down from the stage with possessive confidence, his other hand already reaching for her waist as her feet touch the floor.
