I don’t know what I thought would happen. Realistically I knew he could never leave the mafia. But the heart is a dreamer and a fool, apparently. No man has ever measured up to Alessandro LaRocca. And I doubt any man ever will.
My heart sinks. I suddenly realize that if I don’t want to spend my life alone, it's up to me to change. Now that I’ve seen that the boy I loved is gone, I have to let go of him for good. Stop holding onto a fantasy. Give someone else a chance. And not just these half-hearted attempts at dating. I have to open up. Get serious.
There’s an ache in my chest with this decision. Instead of my heart opening, it feels like it just cracked.
Something soft brushes my arm and I glance down.
Pepper is carefully curling himself into a ball beside me. His shiny black eyes meet mine. It feels like a message. If this little dogcan open his heart and trust someone else to love him, then I can, too.
Before I can change my mind, I grab my phone and text Sloane:Taking u up on ur offer to go out this weekend
Sloane:who are U & what have u done w/ my best friend?
Me:Funny. Sat. night?
Sloane:I’ll be at ur place at 8. No backing out!
Chapter 12
Alessandro
The four of us slide into a tufted leather booth at the Viper Room, a cigar club located above Fiorella’s, an Italian restaurant—both owned by Zerilli. It’s about what I expected. Luxury in caramel and chocolate tones, black paneled walls, dim lamps, a long bar with red lighting, and a huge Tuscan stone fireplace. The chilled air holds a mix of fragrant cigar smoke, expensive whiskey and money. A jazz band plays in the corner.
Caelian has already put their camera feed on a loop, so Zerilli will never know we were here tonight. Can’t tip him off to our suspicions.
The waitress brings our crystal tumblers of bourbon and then shows us the cigars on offer. Rocco and Caelian both choose one, rolling it between their fingers and sniffing it, while I assess the waitress—blonde, early-thirties, curvy.
“Let me know if I can get y’all anything else.” She winks and sways her hips as she walks away.
“That southern accent and thick ass says not Russian,” Rocco says as he digs his Zippo lighter out of his pocket.
I nod, take a mouthful of the bourbon, hold the sweet burn against my tongue and then swallow. We chat and drink. Rocco and Caelian smoke their cigars. It looks like a casual night out, but we’re keeping an eye on the women wandering around the room.
The rumor is Zerilli has Russian women working for him in his clubs. If true, where are these women coming from? Are they part of the Bratva trafficking ring? Forced to work here? Is that the payoff for Zerilli letting them operate in Tampa?
We’ve been here for two hours with no luck. The patrons are getting drunker, the laughter louder, the dance floor filling up with people who have no fucking business dancing in public. I’m just about to call it a night when I spot a group of five tall, thin women in slinky dresses walk through the door.
They immediately split up, two going to the bar.
“What do we have here?” I say.
My brothers turn and eye the women.
“That looks promising,” Caelian answers.
We watch as they start up conversations with the most well-dressed men in the room. They smile, touch, flirt, enchant. It’s an art form. If they are victims of the Bratva, it’s one they’ve learned to survive.
“Care for company?”
We all look up at the petite blonde woman standing at our table. Her accent is thick. Russian.
Bingo.
“Sure, Doll.” Caelian slides out of the booth and motions for her to have a seat between him and Gunnar.
We do introductions, and she says her name is Brenda. We share a silent glance.
I watch as she performs her act with us. Her painted-red mouth is smiling, but her blue eyes are full of fear. There’s a smear of thick makeup on her neck that’s not quite covering up a bruise, and her hands are trembling. She would be easy to break.
