That does it.
Something cold slides into place behind my ribs.
I lean back, slow, and let my eyes cut through her. “You know I don’t pay for it.”
Her brows lift like she’s entertained. Like I just told her a joke.
“Really?” she says, dragging the word out. “Well, I heard you do now.”
My jaw tightens.
Antonio’s posture changes across from me, the humor gone. His attention sharpens.
I lower my voice and speak dangerously soft. “And what the hell does that mean?” Alana is smart enough to know she pushed me too far. But, unfortunately, not smart enough to get herself out of it.
She licks her lips, eyes bright. “Rumor has it you paid for some blonde whore the other night at Ralphie’s auction.”
Her voice dies away by the end, and she swallows, looking between Antonio and me quickly.
I don’t move, but everything in me locks in on her.
I lean in and whisper in her ear, real quiet. “Say that again.”
Alana’s throat bobs. She tries to smile like she can laugh her way out of it, but her eyes are wild with panic. “I’m just saying what people are saying,” she whispers. “That you went to Ralphie’s on Friday and dropped a ton of dough for some virgin, and—”
Antonio’s voice cuts in, low and hard. “Alana.” One word. A warning. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. She flinches.
I keep my eyes on her. “Who told you that?”
Her mouth opens, then closes. She swallows again, hands lifting like she’s innocent. “I don’t know, okay? It’s just… it’s talk. The girls talk. The guys talk. Everybody talks.”
I reach up to take her jaw, very gently, and bring her face real close to mine. If a stranger were to see us, they might mistake us for lovers. “Not you. Not anymore.”
Alana’s lips part. Her eyes shine with panic now, but she still tries. “Nico, I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care what you meant,” I say quietly. “You’re done for the night. Go. And if I hear anything else about this again from your direction, you don’t step foot in any of our buildings or streets again.”
I release her jaw, and she scrambles off the seat like it’s on fire. She doesn’t argue. No more smirk. No more performance. She doesn’t try to flirt her way back into my good graces. She just nods once, fast, and backs away with her hands half raised, eyes darting between Antonio and me.
Then she turns and slips out of the VIP room, heels quiet on the carpet, disappearing through the door like she was never here.
Antonio watches the door until it shuts. When he looks back at me, the humor is gone.
“So,” he says. He shifts in his seat, and the movement costs him; I see it in the small hitch of his breath, the way his hand goes to his side without him thinking. He ignores it and tips his chin atme. “You want to tell me why my nephew is getting his gossip from a prostitute in our VIP room?”
I stare at the empty spot on the couch where she was sitting, and I make my hands relax on my knees because I can feel the urge to break something humming under my skin. Erica’s face flashes in my head—her eyes too bright, her voice too careful, the way she said Mr. Conti like it was a wall she could hide behind.
“It’s a long story,” I say finally, quietly. “And one that shouldn’t be going around.” I lift my gaze to Antonio. “It doesn’t belong with this crowd.”
I flick my gaze around at all the money-hungry, attention-seekers.
Antonio follows my gaze like he’s cataloging the room the way I do—faces, intentions, what they’ll repeat the second they’re out of earshot. He gives a small, tired exhale and shifts again like he’s trying to find a position that doesn’t pull. “Let’s get out of here,” he says and eases out of his seat.
I fight the urge to help him because he wouldn’t want it. Once he’s up, we make our way out of the VIP room and, as quickly as we can manage in this crowd, get outside and into my car.
Once we’ve driven off and left all of that behind, I exhale.
“I don’t know how you thrive in crowds like that,” I tell Antonio.
