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“We discussed it years ago, but decided the club was a safer option. Now that we have the Reapers and Giuseppe coming after us, we have to keep it on the back burner.”
He follows my gaze to the women at the bar. “And what’s going on with you and Alexandra? You keep looking at her, but you’re not going over to the bar to talk to her.”
I sigh. “She wanted more, and like a jackass, I said no.”
“Why? I see how you look at each other. You want her and clearly she wants you.”
“That was before-”
“Before what?”
“She changed. She doesn’t want a future with me.”
She wants me to fuck her and pleasure her, but she doesn’t want to be with me.
Spencer and I head into the VIP lounge as Terry opens the door and lets people in. I can drown my sorrows in food, booze, and friendships, but no one can replace Alexandra.
A cocktail waitress greets Spencer. “Would either of you men care for a private dance?”
Savannah pushes past the waitress and sits on Spencer’s lap, claiming her territory. “He’s already taken.”
The waitress scoffs and turns to me. “What about you? Are you taken?”
Movement behind the waitress gets my attention. Alexandra stands next to the waitress and crosses her arms while she waits for my answer.
I smirk. “Not yet, but hopefully one day soon the woman of my dreams will come to her senses and realize what a great catch I am.”
Alexandra purses her lips and fumes. Spencer chuckles and Savannah slaps him on his chest.
The waitress laughs and drags her finger along my hand. “Her loss. How about-”
Her question is cut off by yelling. A few seconds later, someone yells, “Smoke grenade!”
Spencer jumps up and grabs Savannah’s hand. I stand and grab Alexandra as smoke fills the club. “Everyone needs to head to the back door. My car is across the street at the shipyard. We can group there and figure out what the hell is going on.”
I try to keep a positive look on my face, but I already know what’s going on. Giuseppe Rossi is coming for his revenge.
Chapter Nine
ALEXANDRA
It’s beena couple of days since the disastrous grand opening of the club. The police chalked it up to a bunch of teenagers pulling a prank on us, but I know otherwise.
It was either Rossi or the Reapers, and my bet is on Giuseppe Rossi. I think he did it to let us know he intends to make good on his promise.
And to remind me of the promise I made to gather information for him.
Swiping on a coat of mascara, I rush into my bedroom and throw on my favorite white blouse and jacket.
“Ugh.” I groan in frustration as the button pops off my jacket. “Fuck it. No jacket today.”
I throw the piece of clothing on my bed and stomp my way to the kitchen. I hate being late. It throws my entire day off, and stresses me out more than I normally am.
I hurriedly chug my coffee, groaning when the hot liquid burns my mouth. “Damn, that’s hot.”
Leaving my coffee cup in the sink, I rush downstairs to my car, freezing in my tracks when I spot a note on my windshield bearing Giuseppe Rossi’s seal. I avoid making eye contact withthe players who are heading across the street to the arena for morning practice.
What if someone saw the note on my windshield? What if they think I’m working for Giuseppe Rossi to take down the Marino family?