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CHAPTER ONE

Ava

The first thing that everyone notices about me is that I'm beautiful. This is good, because it helps me to swindle them out of money and information.

I'm a con artist, by birth and trade, so being pretty is a very helpful addendum to my other skills. That doesn't mean, however, that I don't often wish that I was average-looking and from a normal family.

Standing in front of the dingy motel mirror, I line my eyes with practiced precision. Every stroke is deliberate—my makeup is another weapon in my arsenal. My hands don't shake anymore when I prep for a job. They haven't done that since I was seventeen.

Tonight's role: an aspiring exotic dancer.

It's not exactly a stretch. I actually worked as one in Miami last year, though the Fiori family doesn't know that particular detail about my past.

"You better not be bailing on me!" Tony shouts through the bathroom door, his teenage angst bleeding through the cheap wood. My little brother, perpetually pissed at the world. Can't really blame him.

"I told you; I'm working." I blend the edges of my smoky eye, studying my reflection. Dark eyes, darker hair, and olive skin that marks me as my father's daughter.

His favorite saying echoes in my head. “ Use what God gave you, piccola. Beauty opens doors that strength can't break down.”

Too bad those doors led him straight to an early grave.

I step out of the bathroom to find Tony sprawled across one of the beds, phone in hand, shoulders tense with his bad attitude. "Working," he scoffs. "You mean lying. Again."

"And you’ve been drinking. Again." I snatch the poorly hidden flask from beside his leg. "Really?”

His face darkens. "Like you're one to talk about life choices."

The words sting, but I swallow the hurt. He's not wrong.

Here I am, about to con my way into another job, to spy on another mark. But this is the last job—given our situation, I didn’t really have a choice. Besides, the Fiori payout for this will be enough to get us out of Chicago, away from all of this.

Montana's waiting—big sky country where no one knows the D'Amato name or what it means.

I check my dance bag again: heels, makeup kit, a tiny recording device disguised as a compact mirror. Professional enough to look legit, not so professional it seems suspicious.

The Silk Rose is high-end, they'll be looking for class.

"I'm doing this for us," I tell Tony's turned back. "Two weeks, maybe three. Then we're gone. Clean slate."

He doesn't answer, but I see his shoulders drop slightly. Beneath the anger, he's just as tired as I am. Tired of running, of pretending, of carrying our parents' legacy like a curse.

I slip on my coat, hiding the audition outfit underneath. One last glance in the mirror—not at my face this time, but at my eyes. Making sure the mask is firmly in place. The pretty girl with the sad story, looking for a fresh start.

It's not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.

"Don't wait up," I tell Tony, though we both know he will. "And lay off the booze. I mean it."

As I close the door behind me, I mutter a quick prayer—not for the job to go well, but for it to be over quickly. For this to really be the last time.

God, or whoever's listening, hasn't answered any of my prayers yet. But maybe this time will be different.

Maybe this time, I'll finally set us free.

The Silk Rose isn't what I expected from a mob-owned strip club.

No neon signs, or sticky floors, or sleazy bouncers.

Instead, I'm greeted by a polished marble foyer and genuine crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than everything I own.

I press my dance bag closer to my side as I look around the entrance area, my heels clicking against the immaculate floor. Two security guards flank the entrance to the club—both wearing suits that cost more than my monthly rent. The taller one gives me a once-over—a professional assessment, not a leer. Interesting.

"Audition?" he asks.

I nod, letting a hint of my nerves show. Not too much—desperate isn't a good look anywhere, especially here.

"I'm on the list. Ava Milano." The fake surname rolls off my tongue easily. I've been lying about my name for so long, sometimes D'Amato feels like the fake one.

He checks his tablet, then nods toward the door. "Through the lobby, down the hall to your right. Someone will meet you."

Further into the building, the air smells like expensive cologne and something that is subtle and floral. There is no sign of the stale beer and sweat stench I remember from the club in Miami.

The lighting is soft and amber in tone, making everyone look airbrushed and expensive. My trained eye catches at least six security cameras in the lobby alone, their angles providing complete coverage without being obvious about it.

Damn good setup , my father's voice whispers in my head. Always case the escape routes first, piccola.

I do it automatically now—service entrance through the kitchens, the emergency exit behind the bar, a staff-only door near the stage. Old habits die hard, especially the ones beaten into you since childhood.

A hostess appears, all legs and perfect smiles. "This way, please."

I follow her through the main floor, registering details for my report. The layout is smart—raised VIP sections with privacy screens, strategic blind spots for discrete conversations.

The main stage is a work of art, all gleaming poles and subtle lighting. This place isn't just legitimate on the surface—it's elegant .

Which makes no sense if it's being used to launder money or move product.

The backstage area is just as impressive. Clean, well-lit dressing rooms with good security and actual functioning locks on the doors. Fresh flowers on the makeup stations. A proper dance studio for rehearsals.

"You can change in here," the hostess says, gesturing to an empty dressing room. "The other girls auditioning are in the green room down the hall when you're ready."

I wait until she's gone before letting out a slow breath. Everything about this place feels off. It’s too professional, too well-run. The Fiori family was convinced the Rega family was using it as a front, but my instincts are screaming otherwise.

Thinking of the Rega Family brings back memories of … I quickly shake them away. It’s never wise to think of him for too long.

Focus , I tell myself. Get in, get proof either way, get out. Then…Montana.

But as I unzip my bag, I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something obvious, something important.

I just hope I figure out what it is before it's too late.

* * *

The green room is exactly what you'd expect from a place like The Silk Rose, with plush velvet couches and vintage theatre posters. Five other girls are scattered around, some stretching, others checking their makeup for the hundredth time.

The nervous energy is thick enough to choke on.

"If you stand in the doorway any longer, you're gonna grow roots."

I turn toward the voice. It’s coming from a blonde perched on one of the couches, leg wrapped around her head like it's the most natural position in the world.

Her smile is genuine, which is rare enough in this business to make me curious.

"Kira," she says, unwinding herself with casual grace, "and you're either a professional dancer or an undercover cop.” She motions at my legs. “You actually have proper pole shoes."

I can't help but laugh, even though the word “cop” makes my heart race for a moment. "That obvious?"

"Honey, half these girls showed up in plastic stripper heels from Amazon. Please tell me you're auditioning. I need someone else here who knows what they're doing."

I drop my bag and start my warmup stretches, letting my body fall into the familiar routine. "That bad?"

"Last girl nearly concussed herself." Kira demonstrates a dramatically awful spin that makes me wince. "I swear she'd never even seen a pole before today."

As I move through my stretches, I study her in the mirror. She's good—really good—based on her muscle control alone. But there's something else about her, something that doesn't quite fit the usual dancer profile. Her eyes are too sharp, too aware.

"So, what's your story?" she asks, helping me with a back stretch. "You don't seem like the typical 'trying to pay for college' type."

If only you knew. "Just looking for a fresh start." Close enough to the truth to sound genuine. "You?"

"Oh, you know. Small town girl, big city dreams, all that cliché bullshit." She grins, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "The money here is insane. Like, 'maybe I can actually retire before I'm seventy' insane. Plus, the boss is fine as fuck!”

A guy in a sleek suit appears in the doorway. "Ladies. Five minutes till the first audition."

The nervous energy in the room ratchets up about ten notches. Two girls immediately dash to the bathroom. Another looks like she might throw up.

"Deep breaths," Kira says, squeezing my shoulder. "You've got this. Just..." She hesitates. "I hear that the owner likes to watch the auditions sometimes. Don't let it throw you if he shows up.”

I want to probe further, but she's already moving away, helping one of the nervous girls with her costume.

Familiar pre-performance jitters settle in my stomach, but underneath there's something else—a nagging feeling that I'm walking into something…

No, it can’t be. My instructions were clear.

I roll my shoulders, centering myself.

Nerves keep you sharp, keep you alive, my mother's voice whispers.

I check my reflection one last time. The dancer looking back at me is confident, professional, just hungry enough for the job to be believable. Perfect costume, perfect makeup, perfect mask.

"Ava Milano?" The suit is back. "You're up first."

I grab my USB and follow him, smiling softly at the good luck wishes from the other girls. As we walk down the hallway, I run through the steps in my head one last time.

Get the job. Gather intel. Get out.

Simple.

So why does it feel like I'm walking into a trap?

The main floor is different in the harsh overhead lights, all the mystery stripped away, leaving nothing but reality. Just me, the pole, and way too many eyes watching from the shadows.

"Music?" The sound guy barely glances up from his booth.

I hand over my USB, trying to ignore how my heartbeat has synced with the clicking of my heels. "Track three."

The opening notes of my audition piece fill the space. I chose something slow and sultry with a heavy bass line. I've done this routine dozens of times, but something feels different today. The air is heavier, charged with something I can't quite name.

Focus. You're a dancer. This is just another audition.

I start simple, with a slow walk around the pole, letting my body flow with the music. Every movement is calculated, precise.

This isn't about being sexy. It's about control and command of the audience. It’s about power.

I learned early on that men don't just want beauty—they want to watch something they can't have.

The first spin comes naturally, my body remembering what my mind wants to forget. Up, around, extend, hold. The cool metal against my skin feels familiar, grounding.

For a moment, I let myself get lost in the pure physicality of the dance, in the way my muscles know exactly what to do.

A figure moves in the VIP section, drawing my attention. Male, expensive suit, radiating authority. The boss, probably. I adjust my angle slightly, making sure he gets a good view of the next combination.

The music builds, and I move with it. Each trick flows into the next—climbs, spins, inversions. My body tells a story of strength wrapped in silk, of danger masquerading as grace. I can feel the energy in the room shifting, the quality of attention changing from clinical to captivated.

Good. Keep them watching. Keep them ? —

The music cuts off mid-beat, leaving me suspended in an inversion. The silence rings in my ears, heavy with possibility.

Heat creeps up my neck as I lower myself gracefully to the ground. This is it—the moment they tell me I'm not what they're looking for. I've been through enough auditions to know what a music cut usually means.

But something's wrong. The energy in the room has shifted again, turning sharp and electric. The figure in the VIP section stands and my heart stutters.

No.

No, no, no.

I know those eyes, that walk, that barely contained power. I've spent years trying to forget them.

The universe, it seems, has a sick sense of humor.

Because Stefano Rega is walking toward me.

And he's looking at me like he's seen a ghost.

Time stops, or maybe my brain does. Kira words are now registering.

This can't be happening. They were adamant that Stefano had one of his men run the club. A Mafia don can’t afford to expose himself so publicly on a regular basis. Why is Stefano willing to do so?

Stefano.

Stefano is here. He’s not just the owner of the club, he apparently manages it.

The Fiori family played me perfectly. They omitted this fact because they knew I would definitely be hired once Stefano saw me. And they also knew I would never have agreed to this job if I knew he would actually be at the club.

He's standing in the shadows of the VIP section, and even from here, I can feel the weight of his stare.

Gone is the wild-haired boy who kissed me in moonlit gardens. This Stefano is all sharp edges and controlled power.

Run , every instinct screams. But my feet won't move.

I force myself to breathe, to think. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure everyone can hear it echoing through the silence that followed my music cut. The Fioris knew exactly what I'd be walking into.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I straighten, willing my hands not to shake. A decade of running cons has taught me how to keep my face neutral, my body language controlled, even when I’m worried or scared. But all that training burns away under his gaze.

From the corner of my eye, I see one of the security guards approaching him, papers in hand. Probably about the next audition.

But Stefano doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He just watches me with an intensity that makes my knees go weak.

I've done enough cons to know when I'm in over my head, and right now I'm drowning.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?