It was a bug. A glitch that shouldn't exist in my system. I'd tried every fix. Work, interrogations, appearances with Valentina, whiskey in the late-night office until my vision blurred.
But Chloe's face kept jumping out at the worst moments.
Probably because I was bored. And because I hadn't completely conquered her. I knew myself—I was competitive. But women had never ranked high on my priority list. I had bigger things to handle. Otherwise, the next guy getting his leg broken might be me.
Tonight was the usual rounds of properties.
The Falcone business empire wasn't just those pretty storefronts aboveground. Underneath ran a whole gray market chain—logistics, entertainment, some things I didn't let linger in my head. Every link needed my personal inspection regularly.
I didn't trust anyone else to do it. Distrust was a Falcone family virtue.
Last stop was an underground club. Most insignificant piece of my portfolio—low profit, high hassle. Last month, a stripper died there. I'd been considering shutting it down or offloading it, but the timing never worked out.
Managing it wasn't complicated. My inspections never took more than five minutes. Check the books, scan the floor, confirm nobody was pulling shit on my turf, then leave.
The manager met me at the door. Silvio Rossi. The kind of guy I could size up in one glance. More hair gel than brains, mouth permanently stuck in that simpering smile you wanted to punch off.
Peak showtime—the strip act. So he ushered me fawning to the best seat in the house, dead center facing the stage.
"Mr. Falcone, welcome. Tonight's lineup has some fresh faces. I'm sure you'll be pleased."
I took the whiskey the server handed me, leaned back into the sofa, and scanned the room. Dim lights, pounding music, a few girls dancing onstage.
Everything looked the same as last visit.
I raised my glass, about to sip and get out.
Then the stage lights shifted angle, landing on a woman just stepping from the wings.
My hand froze mid-air, whiskey glass suspended.
Long brown curls. Honey-colored eyes. Stage lights illuminating a collarbone and shoulder line that was mesmerizing. She wore the standard outfit for this venue—sequins, fringe, cut so revealing you couldn't look away.
Heavy stage makeup transformed her face from the plain look I'd seen at the company. But that face, that body—same as the woman who'd been haunting my dreams these past months.
Chloe Bennett.
The same Chloe Bennett who'd left me money, said my technique was mediocre, then vanished for two months. Now standing on the stage of my strip club, wearing next to nothing, dancing for a room full of strange men.
Her moves were so awkward I wanted to drag whoever choreographed this out and beat them—even a complete amateur could see she was off-beat.
The performance was rough as hell.
But her body wasn't.
Stage lights on Chloe's skin—honey-toned, luminous. Her waist curved in the shadows with a line you couldn't look away from. When she turned, her hair whipped over her shoulder, exposing that small patch of neck I'd kissed.
While my brain was still processing "what the hell is she doing here," my body had already answered.
I was hard.
And then Chloe spotted me.
Eyes locked. Those honey eyes churning with emotions. She looked panicked.
We held the stare for just a heartbeat before Chloe jerked her gaze away like she was fleeing, forcing herself through a turn that looked even stiffer.
The dance heated up. Other girls onstage started peeling off layers, audience excitement rising with them. Whistles, shouts, bills hitting the stage—layering louder and louder.
