"That bartender. What's the deal with you two?"
"What?" Chloe was still panting hard. Her brain was clearly still fogged from the afterglow, not processing why I'd bring up another guy right now.
"You two look cozy. Guy's got balls."
I tightened my arm around her waist as I said it.
Chloe wriggled upright in my hold. She turned, staring at me with a hint of nerves.
"Liam and I are just high school classmates. That's it. Nothing more."
She was explaining hard, really emphasizing it.
Her hair was a mess, lips swollen, dance straps still loose and crooked on her shoulder. She was rushing to clear up that there was zilch between her and the bartender.
She didn't want me to get the wrong idea.
That realization eased the tightness in my chest from the past few days.
"Got it," I cut her off. "I heard you."
Chloe stopped, looking relieved.
"I don't like seeing you with him." My tone came out cool. No point sugarcoating—I didn't do that. "Stay away from him."
Chloe didn't say yes or no. Just went quiet. She dropped her head to fix that loose strap, fingers knotting it with extra force.
She didn't look thrilled.
But I didn't care. I wasn't into sharing with other guys.
My mind kicked into gear. Easiest way to erase Liam? Stage an accident. He walks home alone after shifts—from the club's back door to the nearest subway, there's a 300-meter dark alley. A runaway van, or a botched mugging, and he's gone for good. Luca handles that shit like a pro.
I was mulling whether to call Luca when Chloe shifted her focus to me.
"Are you jealous?" She turned, no anger like I expected—just a shy smile tugging at her lips.
Jealous? My first reaction was a frown.
Me, Enzo Falcone, jealous of a strip club bartender?
It sounded ridiculous. Did she think she was that big a deal? I was just interested, that's all.
At least, that's what I'd told myself.
But replaying the last few days: With Julian linking up with the Mexicans to flip things, Valentina's family pushing hard on the wedding timeline, I'd still shown up at this damn club every night, just to watch one woman dance.
No way that was rational.
I'd lost control.
My mother was a whore. She died not long after having me. All I knew about her came from the old butler's scraps. I didn't remember her face, but one thing was clear: My father, Carmine Falcone, never loved her. Just like he never loved me.
In his world, emotions were excess baggage. His need for her ended the second she got pregnant.
The biggest lesson I learned young: Never love anyone. Love chains you down, makes you do stupid shit for them.
And stupid shit in our world means death.
