Chapter One
Serafina
Five years later
Holly Beach, Louisiana
I begged Ben not to book this party. I recognize the house from my childhood adventures, biking around the neighborhood. Gang leader Lazaro Mendoza lives here. The bachelor party is listed under John Smith. Whenever my boss writes that alias on a work order, warning bells go off. I frown as the limo stops in front of the beachside address. Working for a private striptease company is nearly as dangerous as being a call girl. I scan the faces of my associates. Jeanie and Jana are identical twins—tall and blond, everything I’m not. They smile at me.
Whenever customers order blond Amazons from the catalog my boss sends me along as a bonus. I’m barely five-three, Italian, with green eyes and dark curly hair. There’s never enough Barbie to go around. Ben always thinks I’ll appeal to the locals—whatever that means.
Our driver opens the limo door and I step onto the cobblestone driveway, the first time I’ve smelled salt air in Louisiana in five years. When I escaped Holly Beach, I never dreamed of coming back. Not like this—hair dyed, a nose and cheek job, and color contacts to disguise who I really am.
But the assholes inside won’t know me. Neither do my coworkers. To them, I’m just the naive part-time college girl who wandered into Ben’s office looking for a job.
“Ladies,” the driver says, offering his hand.
The twins slide out.
“What’s wrong, Serafina?” Tony asks.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Youknowwhose house this is.”
He shakes his head. “A three thousand dollar booking fee says I don’t.”
Our boss, Ben Matthews, holds a monopoly on the private striptease circuit from Beaumont, Texas, to the western half of Louisiana. He also owns a large limousine company. “Your silence is cheap.” I shove my dance bag higher on my arm. “What about the Olsen twins?”
He snickers at my sarcasm. “What they don’t know . . .”
“Yeah.” I’m not sure those two know much except how to bump and grind each other and the customers. It’s disconcerting to watch them sometimes, how far they’re willing to go for big tips. Good thing I brought my chemistry book; I’ll study while theyentertain.
Before I can finish the thought, the front doors of the house open. A tall man in a charcoal suit steps outside. “Mr. Connors?” Tony shakes hands with him. “I’m Mr. Diaz, your liaison for the evening.”
I roll my eyes. We have a liaison? The idea just reinforces the negativity I feel for the cartel. They make their money off the pain and suffering of people—getting them hooked on the drugs they sell. I glare at Diaz, wishing I was at home. He continues. “Any financial transactions will be handled through me. Anything you need—find me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Tony nods obligingly.
I know what lurks underneath Tony’s country boy simper—a black belt and a loaded Desert Eagle. He turns and presses his hand against the small of my back. “May I present Serafina?”
Diaz’s gaze roams over me appreciatively. “Very lovely. And the twins?”
Tony points.
They scoot closer, giggling. “Ah . . . perfect.” He claps his big hands together. “Please, follow me inside.”
We head down a long hallway off the great room. Diaz opens a door. “I hope these accommodations are acceptable.”
Tony steps through the door first; I follow. I spin slowly. It’s a beautiful suite, complete with matching four-poster beds, a sitting area with a gas fireplace near a hot tub, and a ridiculously large bathroom. “We’ll manage,” I comment.
Tony throws me ashut uplook.
Diaz smirks. “Good,” he says. “I’ll see you in an hour.” He exits the room and closes the door.
“Turn off the charm, Serafina,” Tony warns.
Jeanie and Jana throw their bags down and head for the hot tub. I bounce on one of the beds. “Very Scarlett O’Hara-ish,” I say.
“I don’t think she lived in a ten-thousand-square-foot hacienda,” Tony replies.
