Page 9

Confidence radiates from her, a palpable force that reaches me even in the shadows of the VIP booth. Fire blazes in her eyes—a brazen challenge to anyone who dares hold her gaze. It’s captivating, the raw power she wields with a mere glance, andfor a moment, I’m caught in it, ensnared by the sheer intensity of her presence.

This is dangerous as fuck. I can’t afford to get turned on by any of the dancers. That would violate my number one rule. But I’m caught up in the deep hum of attraction, unable to tear my gaze from her body. Shit! I can’t afford to be mesmerized. Not here. Not now.

As Isabella dances, I force my mind to shift gears back in a cold, calculating mode once more. My resolve lasts a few seconds before I’m back to being obsessed.

Each sway of her body, each arch of her back, is a message written in a language I’ve learned to read all too well. She owns the stage, every inch of it, her movements both enticing and commanding.

My eyes narrow, dissecting the performance, past the allure and into the strategy. She knows what she’s doing, knows the effect she has on the crowd. The other women whisper among themselves, eyes alight with envy or desire. You know a girl’s hot as fuck when other women want to bang her too.

Isabella’s alluring, yes, but also dangerous. I’ve seen how beauty can be wielded like a weapon, how it can disarm and destroy. And as I watch her, something tells me she’s more than just another dancer vying for attention. She’s playing a deeper game, one that tells me she really needs this job. Why else would her routine be so perfect? She must have practiced it a million times.

I sink back, pulling myself free from the spell she casts. My fingers tap against the tabletop. What’s her story? Why is she here? I want to know more.

“Fuck! I knew something wasn’t right,” Diablo mutters.

I can barely hear him over the bass pulsing through the club. “What?”

“That’s Isabella Vasquez.”

I stiffen, the information hitting me like a freight train. “No fucking way.”

“Yeah, look. Under all the makeup, it’s her.”

Warning bells ring in my head. Isabella is Juan Vasquez’s sister. He’s the leader of Los Serpientes de Cristal, the cartel kingpin who thinks he can claim New Orleans as his own bloody playground. What’s she doing here, dancing on our turf?

“Are you sure?” I keep my voice low, my eyes locked on Isabella as she moves with undulating grace.

“Positive. I’ve seen her picture enough times, brother.” Diablo’s certainty is like a splash of ice water in my face. My gut tightens. Something’s seriously wrong.

My gaze sharpens, dissecting every sway and pivot of her hips. Each step she takes radiates confidence while hiding her true motives. Her family’s rich enough that she doesn’t need money. That’s not why she’s here. It’s got to be something else.

“If she thinks she can slither into our world undetected, she’s sorely mistaken,” I growl.

“What are you going to do?” Diablo asks.

“Not sure yet.”

Even as my mind races through the implications of her presence, I’m drawn to her in a way that defies logic or duty. I should be throwing her off the stage and out of the club, but instead, I want to bend her over a table and fuck her until we’re both satisfied.

Damn it, Ice, focus!

“Don’t let her leave,” I tell Diablo.

“On it,” Diablo grunts, sliding out of the booth to move closer to the edge of the stage. He takes a seat and folds his thick arms across his huge chest. She’ll never make it past him. I’m glad he’s here.

Isabella’s final, fiery spin draws her performance to its climax. When the last thump of bass fades, the club eruptsinto pandemonium. The applause is deafening—a cacophony of whistles and cheers as she takes her bow, her eyes glinting triumphantly in the spotlight. With a grace that seems at odds with the danger I know she represents, she exits the stage. Diablo grabs her arm and gestures for her to sit beside him.

“Give it up for Isabella!” The DJ’s voice cuts through the noise, his excitement adding fuel to the already-blazing inferno of applause.

The rest of the girls are a blur on stage. I can’t focus on anything but the back of Isabella’s head. I’d give anything to know what’s going through her mind right now. Does she think we’re stupid? Even though I didn’t recognize her immediately, I would have eventually. As soon as she took off all that makeup, I’d know her real identity.

After the final dancer leaves the stage, the DJ takes her place. He holds the microphone close to his lips and announces, “Ladies, thank you for coming to amateur audition night. Please stay for a few minutes so we can let you know if you have a job here or not.”

“What about the money?” one of the girls yells.

“Hold your tits, babe.” The DJ glares for a second before resuming his jovial smile. “Our undisputed winner tonight… is Isabella! Please come onto the stage to accept your prize.”

“Time to make a move,” I murmur, sliding out of the booth.