“The bitch kneed me in the balls.”
“I’m surprised she could find yourhuevos. She told you not to touch. Now you’re leaving.”
“Who the fuck are you? You’re not a bouncer here.”
“Are you sure?”
Alejandro kept up the conversation as he slips between thepezzo di merda—piece of shit—and me. His size looms over the guy, and he forces him to back away from me even farther. He’s not wearing the black t-shirt with the club logo on it and cargo pants the other bouncers wear. He’s in a button-down shirt and slacks. He rolled his shirt sleeves back, and his tattoos peek from beneath the material.
He doesn’t look like a bouncer. He looks like he owns the place. He moves with authority that doesn’t encourage anyone to argue with him.
I stay where I am as more space grows between the men and me. Alejandro gestures at someone, and two men who’re clearly bouncers approach.
“Échale a patadas y asegúrate de que sepa que está prohibido.” Toss his ass out and make sure he knows he’s banned.
The bouncers crowd the guy, and one of them shoulder checks him as he turns to face thepezzo di merdawho now regrets most of his life choices.
“What the fuck, man? I was just dancing with her. She went all psycho on me. She could have told me she didn’t want to dance with me.”
“She did. Twice.”
How the hell did Alejandro know that? I didn’t see him get close enough to hear me. Maybe he’s guessing from my expression or body language. Maybe he’s guessing I told him once, then shoved my knee into his balls after the second time.
“Don’t fucking touch me. Let go. I’ll leave on my own. This is a shitty club anyway.”
Besides the shoulder check, neither bouncer touches him. They don’t have to. He’s just whining like apiccolo cagna—little bitch. Neither Alejandro nor the bouncers say anything. The enormous enforcers hover, intimidating him into retreating. Rather than shut up and take the smart way out, the douche doubles down. Hell, at this point, he’s—like—quadrupling down.
“Do you know who I am?”
Alejandro laughs at thecazzo—dick—and it sends a chill down my spine. It must do the same to the man because he finally realizes he’s pushed too far.
“I don’t give a fuck who you are. Do you know who I am?”
He pauses for effect, his voice dropping an octave.
“I’m Alejandro Diaz.”
The color drains from the man’s face, and he stumbles. I swallow my smirk and my laugh. My unwanted dance partner might pass out from how quickly he’s breathing. Alejandro takes a threatening step forward, his shoulders pressed back. I shift towatch him from the side. His shirt strains across his chest, and his sleeves are already tight around his bulging—yes, definitely bulging—biceps.
“My cousin manages this place. My family owns it. You look like you know who I am, so do you want to leave on your own or find out what it means when I throw you out?”
“I—I—I’ll go.”
“Consider yourself banned from any establishment my family owns. I wouldn’t go to any places the Kutsenkos, O’Rourkes, or Mancinellis own either. Smile for the security cameras. I’ll send your photo to them.”
The guy spins on his heel and practically sprints to the door. He barrels through the crowd; whereas the bouncers part the sea of people like they’re both Moses. Alejandro looks toward me. His gaze slides down then up until our gazes meet. My heart pounds, worried he recognizes me. I’m a redhead tonight with blue contacts to disguise my gray eyes. I had brown contacts in on the yacht.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
Ma’am?
How the fuck old does he think I am?
“I’m fine. Thanks for that. He wouldn’t let go when I told him I didn’t want to dance with him.”
“I could tell.”
His expression is speculative, and my worry turns to fear. If he hasn’t recognized me yet, he will if I don’t get away from him soon.
