Page 38 of Chicago Sin

He doesn’t say sorry—of course, I don’t expect him to—but we’re simpatico.

The dancer does her thing, pushing her breasts in my face, straddling me, then turning around and grinding her bikini-clad ass against my dick.

She’s wearing a tiny red thong and eight-inch stiletto heels that she uses to keep me in place. Her back is arched, her head thrown back, her long blonde hair cascading down across her shoulders. She gyrates against me like a slow-motion wave, and between the sheer desperation of her act and the fact that I’m stone cold sober and not even trying to hide my discomfort—it feels like I’m stuck in some awful time warp. She looks over at me every few seconds with sad eyes as if begging for mercy, but all I can do is just sit there motionless, waiting for it to be over.

I work to wait for the shit to be over. I seriously don’t have the patience for this tonight.

It’s hard to imagine I ever will again. Did I really used to enjoy nights like this down at the don’s club? Playing the big man. Working hard to fit in, to play the role.

Now I just want to walk away.

From it all.

But that’s not an option. You don’t get out of La Cosa Nostra. Not when you’re a Made man. Don Pachino owns me now, for the rest of my life.

Arturo waves another girl over with a bill. “Your turn. On him.” He points at me.

Fucking Christ on a clamshell. How long will I have to endure this?

But I know if I don’t, everyone’s gonna read it the wrong way—especially the Don. I gotta show my gratitude, be good natured here. Yeah, I did time, but it’s part of the game. Now I’m out, and they treat me to lap dances and help me set up my life again. I gotta prove I’m worth the effort they’re putting in. Also, that I haven’t rolled over or gone sour.

That’s always the fear when someone’s fresh out of the pen. Especially when they’re out a year early. But I know better than that. That’s a line I would never cross. Not outta fear, either. I am still loyal. This is still my family.

I’m just not feeling it right now.

But I’m not feeling much of anything, so that’s not unusual.

Fucking Emilio sends over another girl, and instead of waiting her turn, they give me two-on-one, a girl’s tongue in each ear, their hands all over my fucking clothes.

My cock is semi-hard because, yeah. Tits in my face. But I’m more low-level disgusted by them than I am turned on.

And honestly? If I’d come here last night—before Hannah—I don’t know if I would’ve even sprouted a chub. Hannah woke my dick from the dead.

And—fuck—she’s tied up and gagged right now in her own bed. That’s the way I repay her.

I am never having sex with you again. I swear to God.

I deserve that. But I’m also asshole enough to hope she’ll get over it. Because right now, she’s my fucking lifeline. She’s the only thing that even seems to make sense—and considering how fucked up our interactions have been up to this point—that’s saying something.

“I got your next one,” Marco calls out to me.

“No, I got it,” Leo offers.

I shake my head and Marco nods, grinning like there’s nothing going on. “All right. Next time, then.”

The dances finish, and I stand up before anyone else can send over a girl. Fuck this. I know I’m being rude. I should stay a few hours, drink a few drinks. Prove my loyalty and work my way back into the inner circle.

But that’s not happening. I walk over to Don Pachino and stand in front of him, giving Emilio the death glare until he says, “What?”

Of course, the guy’s too much of a prick to take a hint. “I need to talk to the don,” I say.

“Give him your seat,” Don G mutters, and only then does Emilio get up, purposely bumping my chest as he passes by.

Johnny, the guy on Don Pachino’s other side, also gets up, presumably to give us privacy.

“What’s wrong?” Don G says immediately.

I sink a little lower in my chair, keeping my gaze trained on the dancing girls on the stage. “Someone has a hit out on me. A cleaner showed up this afternoon outside Rocco’s. I took care of him. Just thought you should know.”