It’s pitiful to admit it, but getting kidnapped and working with a crime boss is the adventure I’ve been craving. Minus the syringes, rough handling, murder, and the initial threat of death, I get to make a million euros doing the craziest shit. I didn’t have a “wild” phase in my twenties. Better late than never, I guess.
Rosalie cheers from the side of the stage as Angel glides down the pole in only clear heels and the will to defy gravity. I asked about her protections as a gig worker, which was met with a blank stare before a promise to speak to Renata. Between the drinks Rosalie and I serve to a private party and the DJ switching to Black American hip-hop and R&B, we are having a time.
My hips corkscrew to Rihanna and Bryson Tiller’s “Wild Thoughts,” my thighs minutes from fighting for their lives. Blue and fuchsia LED lights sweep over the semi-private VIP in streams. The customers in our section are well-liquored and thoroughly entertained. Every eye is on Angel, all except one person’s.
I climb off the illuminated platform, careful not to break any bones or bust my ass. “Need anything else, Mr. Messina?” I ask in Italian, leaning into his personal space so he can hear me over the music piping through the speaker.
He stares at my cleavage before his eyes lift to mine. “You.”
Ser Criston Cole wants to be fresh.
He’s cute, I’ll give him that. Deep-set eyes. Trimmed brows. Wavy brown hair tapered to his neck. His build fills out the white polo and black ankle pants relaxed against the leather sofa. He leans into it like a throne.
I haven’t gone into any of the back rooms since I’ve been here. One peek at someone’s ass in the air and my nosy self will watch the entire show with a snack and no shame. One-night stands aren’t a common practice for me. I tried it once—twice, if theman who came in his hand after taking off his pants counts. A wasted trip uptown. I almost sued.
Benny is the only man I’ve spread my legs for without going through my list of red flags and nonstarters. Granted, my focus had been on my exit strategy after his goons had snatched me in broad daylight, but I felt safe in his luxury crypt with the ceiling mirror.
Now that I know he’s community property, I’ll pass. I’m also not turning on the “open” light of my pussy for anyone who wants to play in it.
“Not on the menu,” I say with a smile.
He holds my wrist. “If not here, where?”
I don’t mind making a man wild, but something about this one sets off an alarm. To run or knock him out, the choice remains unknown.
Light and shadows dance across the stubble lining his jaw and his bow-shaped lips. “What’s your name?”
“Call me B.” I remove his fingers from my pulse point. He hasn’t been touchy since he arrived with the three guys whispering to women in dark corners. “You are?”
“Call me Gus.”
“Gus?” I snort. “You don’t look like a Gus.”
“And you aren’t Italian.” His arms spread across the back of the sofa. “How long have you worked here?” The question comes in English.
I grab the empty glasses on the table. “Not long.”
“Which is?”
“Is this an interview,Gus?”
His tongue sweeps across his lips. “I don’t forget faces. Did Renata hire you?”
Goosebumps spread across my forearms. Benny said he has men here watching me. He never told me what they look like, which could be a problem if I lay Gus out in front of his people.
I steady my voice and push away the alarm from earlier, now nagging me to run. “What’s your interest in my employment?”
I choose my words carefully to quell Gus’s curiosity playing out in his dark gaze. I’m not the only Black woman here, but his hyperfixation is giving stalker.
His stare lingers before he says, “I have an interest in the club.”
He’s a killer.
Or the feds.
No one asks this many questions unless they already know the answer—and want to bait someone—or are sniffing around for the person they want to put on the back of a milk carton.
Do they still do that?
