For several hours, I try to stop comparing the girls to Valentina. But deep down, under the music and the laughter, something sharp twists in my gut.
"I've gotta get out of here," I mutter, pushing DD-cup titties out of my face.
"What's wrong?" the brunette chirps.
I toss money at her. "Nothing. You're great." I hightail it out of the VIP room and look for Sean, but he's nowhere.
Great. Another night of wondering if he's coming back alive.
I stumble my way to the exit. The moment I step out of the strip club, cold air cuts through the heat still clinging to my skin. The neon sign above the door flickers, buzzing like it's trying to warn me. The muffled music fades deeper as I move across the parking lot.
The limo SUV pulls next to me. The driver rolls down the window. "Mr. O'Malley?"
"I'm going to walk."
"Not the best neighborhood," he warns.
I snort. "Not worried. Take care of the rest of the boys." I walk farther into the dark, away from the chaos, trying to blow off steam I shouldn't have.
Why can't I get her out of my damn head?
I stagger through the neighborhood I grew up in, on streets I used to hustle, passing buildings boarded up. The same alleys I used to dumpster dive for food reek of the same rot.
My stomach flips, and I wonder how I ever did it.
I turn a corner and a couple stumbles out of a bar and into a rideshare. More guests stand outside smoking, drunk in conversation and spirits.
The cloud of smoke is thick. I push through it and walk several more blocks. The hairs on my neck rise, and I freeze.
The city feels off. It's too quiet and still. Even the breeze seems to hold its breath, but it's like my instincts snap awake, one by one.
Someone's watching me.
I scan my surroundings, but the street's vacant. I tap my pocket knife and step into the alley's shadows.
A shadow peels itself off the brick wall, and my chest locks.
I'm seeing things.
Valentina steps into the faint strip of streetlight like she owns it. Her head's high, shoulders are relaxed, and she wears a red-diamond-encrusted eye mask. She fixes her gaze on me with a look that makes it hard to breathe.
She shouldn't be here, not in this neighborhood, and especially not alone, or in this dark alley. Yet here she is, as if she's waiting for me.
How did she know I'd be here?
Her black coat hugs her body. Her pinned hair exposes the deadly line of her throat. Her boots barely click on the pavement as she takes two steps toward me.
For a second, I forget how to swallow.
"Brax." Her Italian accent gives me a hard-on even though she says my name like she's snapping a chain around my neck.
Every emotion I've shoved down for months erupts at once. It's anger, heat, relief, and frustration. I clench my fists, unsure if it's so I don't reach for her or push her away.
I mutter, "You're not real. I'm drunk. Or hallucinating."
She tilts her head, eyes flicking down my chest like she's checkingwhether I've improved since she last dissected me. She teases, "I can assure you I'm real. Not sure if you're drunk though?"
I take a step back on instinct.
