Mateo Ricci
Ican’t believe we’re in. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by anything that Raoul is capable of. The black card that allowed us access had materialized almost magically from his pocket as we reached the front entrance. The dark corridor to the security doors had been tense, even more so when the heavyset security guard stepped forward. Until he’d greeted Raoul with a fleeting smile and a brief nod.
“Sir,” he says. Raoul steps forward and stretches his arms out to both sides.
What the fuck is he doing?
The guy makes a show of patting him down, then glances at me.
Oh, hell no!
I’m fucking armed to the teeth.
Raoul slants me a look then aims his eyes to a spot above the door. Security cam.
Shit.
We’re being watched. I raise my arms and the guy moves his hands over the surface of my black suit. If he feels the hard edges of the weapons tucked beneath my jacket, his expression gives no hint of it. He’s one of ours.
Thank fuck.
“Enjoy your evening, gentlemen,” he says, keying in a code on the pad beside the door, then swinging it open. The music washes over us in a wave and we step in. I run an eye over the place, clenching my jaw at the knowledge that Andy is in here somewhere.
Trust Mark to run a joint like this. Slick and supposedly sophisticated. All fake. The place has a black-tie dress code. Women are in evening gowns, but most are dressed to display rather than conceal. I keep my eyes above throat level, roving over the gathered guests as I seek out the woman we’re here for.
Thank God I’m wearing a mask. It’s hiding my expression of distaste as we weave through the tables and past beds of writhing bodies.
God knows I love sex…if my time with Andy reinforced anything, it was that. But these assholes are fucking like they have something to prove. There’s too much theatrical shit going on here. Moans that sound forced, contortions that can’t possibly be pleasurable. It’s fucking bullshit. If I had the inclination, I’d show them how to do it right.
I don’t have the inclination.
“See anything you like?” Raoul quips as a half-naked brunette walks by and winks at him.
“Fuck off,” I mutter. “Where are the others?” I try not to make it obvious that I’m trying to identify people around me. I’m also trying to blend in, which isn’t easy when the pair of us stick out like sore thumbs. We both tower head and shoulders over half the guests. Even with most of his face obscured, Raoul looks like he just stepped off the cover of fuckingGQ. I’d go so far as to say I’m not far behind – I know I’m easy on the eye. Not that it matters.
Meanwhile, although most of the women in the place are model-beautiful, very few of the guys match up. I’m amazed some of them have the nerve to strip naked – yet too many of them do. Of course, the performers on stage are a different matter. A muscular guy wearing some sort of freakish animal head is piledriving a woman who’s wailing like a pornstar. I look away when he starts bellowing like a bull then whips out and sprays a shower of spunk up her back. She writhes around as if in the throes of an orgasm, which seems unlikely considering the whole performance seemed like it was all about getting him off.
“The guys will be mingling,” Raoul brings me back to the job at hand. “They’re good. You won’t be able to pick any of them out.”
I give a nod. It’s comforting to know he’s got his best men on the job, but I’d feel better if I knew I wasn’t looking at one of Raoul Caraldi’s elite hitmen rolling around naked right now. Of course, it’s unlikely, considering there’d be nowhere to hide a weapon. We continue to move through the throng, sidestepping bodies and ducking past the bare legs of women hanging from the roof in cages.
What the actual fuck?
“I think I could give her a bit of one-on-one time,” Raoul says beneath his breath as a blonde in red leather walks by. I don’t know why she bothered to put it on. The tightly buckled leather straps leave her breasts and pussy completely exposed.
“Don’t be a dog, Raoul,” I respond. “She looks like a pro anyhow.” I’m pretty sure a good number of the better-looking patrons were hired to give the place a bit of class. That goes for the men in particular, but the girl who just walked past is clearly a high-class hooker.
“Hey, who am I to question a woman’s career choices?” Raoul aims a smile at the woman who winks at him from behind her mask before moving away.
“Asshole.” I turn away from him and keep scouring the crowd.
She has to be here somewhere.
“You lonely, baby?” a voice interrupts us. I realize the blonde has doubled back with a friend in tow. The woman’s hair is pitch-black and falls in sleek waves that skim past bare nipples.
“I’m good, thanks,” I respond, sparing her a glance before I continue looking around the room. “I’m trying to find someone in particular.”
“I can be someone in particular.” The dark-haired woman sets her palm on my chest. Her pupils are so huge it’s hard to tell her eye color. Stoned as fuck.
