“Welcome to the new mafia,” Declan says. “Zelda Ortega’s rich, corrupt, and owns half the corporate world. Cal’s aligning interests. And you need to be seen with me.”
“Or?”
He mimes a gun with his hand.
I flinch. “Some of the ballet donors are here.”
He reaches under the table and slides a hand along my thigh. “Just remember whichleg you hurt and you’ll be fine.”
“I want to go home. I don’t like being out here. Exposed.”
“Don’t lie, Molly girl, you’re not made for it.”
“Fuck you.”
“Got me some soap for that filthy, dirty mouth of yours,” he says with an arrogant grin.
I lean in. “Fuck. You.”
“See? I knew you had some little kinks there. Danger and exposure. Exhibitionism. A little light spanking. Is there a humiliation kink? Because I’m not really into that, but I can learn.”
“I hate you, Declan.”
“And I love the bitchy way you say Declan, Molly, instead of Dec like everyone else. Like you know you haven’t earned it.” Then he looks at me and stands, holding out his hand. “Dance with me, Molly.”
“You have a drink.”
He downs it. “No, I don’t.”
“My leg.”
“Swaying’s good for injuries.” The hand doesn’t waver. “Come on. Now.”
I take his hand.
And damn me. Heat slips through my blood when he pulls me close. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, anchoring me in a way I don’t want to think about. One song, just one, and I pull back, mutter something about the bathroom, grab my clutch bag from the table, and slip away.
Inside the mirror-lined room, I breathe, try to untangle my racing pulse.
Then my phone buzzes.
Mom: Lunch. Tomorrow.
I glare at the screen, and before putting my phone away, I dial Leon’s number.
Nothing. The call goes to voicemail, and the message sends ice shooting through my veins.
“This number is currently out of service.”
He told me if that ever happened, it meant he was in trouble and had to lie low. There’s a Colombian hole in the wall restaurant uptown where he knows the people, a place he told me he’d use to hide or use as a temporary place to escape his family.
The memory’s vague, one I’d forgotten until now, but in this moment it shines bright. Walking away from his family would be a death sentence, so he does the minimum necessary to stay in their good graces. But what if he can’t? What if I dragged him closer to the edge by asking for his help?
Me: Sorry, I can’t make it.
Mom: Stop being a child. I’ve arranged a doctor’s appointment for you tomorrow, and your spot will be waiting when you recover.
My heart turns to stone.
