The room is silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
There’s nothing except a commotion near the bar. Squinting past the lights, I see a large man—security, maybe—has someone by the armon the bartender’s side of the bar. Although the blond man stands a foot shorter than the brute marching him out, he holds his ground for several long seconds.
When he reaches for the tips jar I helped fill, his furious yet still-handsome face is exposed.
Santo.
“I’m going,” he shouts over the music.
He sidesteps the stranger, but not without first barging into him. As the giant guides him to the exit, Santo’s eyes wildly dart around the club, searching for someone. I know who he’s looking for, just like I know who I’m about to see, as indicated by his narrowed glare.
My heart drops to my stomach when I move to an area where the stage lights aren’t blinding. It lowers even further when the inky-black eyes I’m expecting meet my gaze.
Dante occupies the center of the room, his aura announcing he owns the club, the air, and the silence. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes fix on me with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
He is the storm I keep pretending I want to outrun but know I never will.
