Safely behind the screen, my fingers find the red alarm button but I hesitate. I intuitively know there’s something off about him, but it’s a hunch, nothing concrete.
If I press this button, security will ask me what the concernis, and what do I say? “Oh, that guy over there just gave me a weird feeling”?
But if I don’t press it and it turns out he planted an explosive device or something equally horrifying, the fall-out would be all my fault because I didn’t alert someone of my hunch.
Oh God.Panic starts to scratch its way up my chest as my finger hovers over the button.
It’s only when the curtains part and two men enter the lounge, one I know more intimately than any other man in my life, and sit on a table adjacent to the Irishman that I feel safe enough to remove my finger.
I have no evidence to prove this but a very strong feeling that as long as Il Diavolo is around, no one will hurt me.
My useless, misguided heart hammers inside my chest.
I’ve never felt so torn. My head knows unequivocally that Fiero Bellucci is wrong for me in every possible way, but my heart can only hear the soft voice he uses when we’re alone, and the gentle way in which he coaxes me to an orgasm, without—mostly—putting his hands on me.
He sits with Remo, one ankle crossed over his knee, suit jacket open, black shirt stretched across his chest, his eyes drifting intermittently in my direction.
I force myself to look away from him.
Thankfully, a group of three enters and I busy myself checking them in and showing them to their table. But on my return, I notice the Irishman has gone.
My shoulders settle with relief but the anxious prickle at the nape of my neck remains.
I accidentally slide my gaze back to Fiero and find his eyes already on me, watching me move abouthisclub, servinghisguests. There’s a flicker of pride on his face which I choose not to read into.
By midnight, the lounge is alive.
Jazz hums through the low-lit room, glasses clink, laughter rolls across velvet booths and softly carpeted floors.
It’s business as usual.
I’m checking names on the reservation list when the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Something feels very wrong. And something—instinct, perhaps—compels me to look up.
A wisp of air dashes across my face and the Irishman appears out of nowhere.
“Oh, hi! Can I?—”
I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence when he grabs my arm hard enough to bruise. All the nerves in my body fire up at the contact and my head spins.
“Wait—let go,” I say, panicked.
“No lass, you’re coming with me.”
What?
One second I’m at the podium, the next I’m being dragged across the lounge. His free hand holds a gun and he holds it aloft, daring anyone to approach us.
The lounge fills with the sound of chairs and tables falling over, women crying out in shock, men shouting, and the soft bass pumping through the speakers.
I search desperately for Fiero but all I can see is a blur of suits and masks and guns pointing in our direction.
The Irishman’s arm bands across my chest, making it hard to breathe.
“Easy now, Pfeiffer,” he growls in my ear. “Do what I say and no one gets hurt.”
Terror detonates in my chest. I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know how this man knows my name and I can’t imagine what he could possibly want with me.
