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CHAPTER SEVEN

Ava

It’s been a week into my new "job" at The Silk Rose, and I've already gotten my routine down to an art.

That's the thing about being a con artist—you learn to adapt fast, to make any role feel natural. Though I have to admit, this one's more fun than most.

"Heads up, Harvard Law just rolled in," Kira calls from her makeup station, voice dripping with amusement. "Three of them, all wearing the same tie. Like a prep school reunion gone wrong."

I catch her eye in the mirror as I stretch, warming up for my set. "Let me guess—they've already mentioned their LSAT scores?"

"Twice." She rolls her eyes, fixing her lipstick. "And Chad, because of course one of them is named Chad, wants to explain cryptocurrency to anyone who'll listen."

"Amateur hour." I smirk, adjusting my outfit. "Watch this…I bet I can work Aristotle into my lap dance and make them think it was their idea."

"Oh honey, no. The last time you started quoting philosophy, that finance bro followed you around all night trying to debate moral relativism." Kira tosses a sparkly hair tie my way.

"Made great tips though." I wink, catching the hair tie. "Never underestimate the power of making men think they're smart. Everything's a performance," I say, more to myself than to her. It's my mother's old saying, one of the few useful things she taught me.

The dressing room bustles with its usual pre-show energy. Girls touching up makeup, adjusting costumes, trading intel about which customers to charm and which to avoid. In just a week, I've learned more about Chicago's power players from the dancers than the Fiori family ever told me.

Speaking of which...

I check my phone, finding another terse message from my handler.

Need progress report. Meet tonight.

"Earth to Ava!" Kira throws another sparkly hair tie at my head. "You're up in five. Unless you're too busy sexting the boss."

I arch an eyebrow at her. "Jealous?"

"Please." She snorts, but there's genuine affection in it. "I just can't believe you got Stefano fucking Rega to look at you more than once. Do you know how many girls have tried?"

Yes, everyone saw Stefano staring at me, and ever since then, I've been the hot topic among the other dancers.

If they only knew the history there.

Instead of answering, I finish my stretches and check my reflection. The stage outfit I’ve chosen shows enough skin to draw attention but has enough class to maintain mystique. Just like everything else in my life lately, it's a careful balance between opposites.

"Time to earn my keep," I say, heading for the stage.

Kira catches my arm, voice dropping. "Seriously though...you're good for him. He actually smiled yesterday. The bouncers nearly had heart attacks."

The simple observation shouldn't hurt this much. It shouldn't make guilt twist in my stomach like a knife.

But as I step onto the stage, letting the music wash over me, I push it all away. Right now, I'm not Ava the spy, or Ava the con artist, or even Ava the girl drowning in complications.

Right now, I'm just a dancer. And damn if I'm not good at it.

The routine starts slow: a deliberate walk around the pole, letting the bass guide my movements. This part is pure performance, but there's freedom in it as well. The freedom of knowing exactly who I am and what I'm doing, even if it's just for these few minutes.

Money starts appearing on the stage, the trust fund babies living up to Kira's prediction. I collect it with practiced grace, adding extra flair to my moves just because I can. Just because it feels good to be in complete control of something for once.

Then I feel it—that electric awareness that means one particular set of eyes is on me. I don't have to look to know Stefano's at the bar, watching. His presence changes the air in the room, makes my skin prickle.

Well then. Might as well give him a show.

I transition into a more complex sequence, letting my body do what it does best. Each spin, each pose is technically perfect, but now there's an edge to it. A heat. Every movement becomes a promise, a tease, a reminder of other ways my body can move.

When I finally do glance his way, the look in his eyes nearly stops my heart. Because this isn't just lust or possession, though there's plenty of both on his face. This is something deeper. Something that looks dangerously like worship.

* * *

Backstage, the high from performing fades into something darker, more complicated. My burner phone buzzes in my locker with another message from the Fioris, no doubt wondering why I haven't found anything incriminating yet.

But it’s because there's nothing to find. The Silk Rose is exactly what it appears to be: a high-end club run with military precision and surprising heart. The books are clean, the girls are protected, and the only thing being laundered is the endless supply of silky robes in the dressing room.

Kira snaps her fingers in front of my face. "You're doing that thing again where you zone out and look like you're plotting world domination."

I force a laugh. "Just thinking about those law students. Think they'd notice if I worked some Machiavelli into my next set?"

"Girl, you are—" She stops mid-sentence, eyes widening at something over my shoulder. The air changes, and I know he’s here.

Stefano.

"Taking a break?" His voice slides down my spine like warm honey. When I turn, he's leaning against the doorframe in a deceptively casual way.

"Just plotting the philosophical corruption of law students," I say, watching his lips twitch. “The usual."

Kira makes a strategic retreat, throwing me a look that clearly says we'll be gossiping about this later. I barely notice, too caught up in the way Stefano's moving toward me, like a predator who's spotted his prey.

"You were incredible out there," he says, backing me against the makeup counter. His hands settle on either side of me, caging me in. "You’re so good at driving me crazy."

"That's kind of the point." I trace a finger down his tie, enjoying the way his breath catches. "It's called a performance for a reason."

"Is it?" His lips brush my ear. "Because some of those moves seemed...personally targeted."

He's not wrong. Half my routine had been choreographed just for him—a private show in plain sight. Another line blurred between reality and performance.

But before I can respond, his phone buzzes. The change is instant, tension replacing desire as he checks the message.

"Problem?" I ask, though my heart's already racing. I know that look. It's the same one my father would get when a job was about to go sideways.

"Maybe." He runs a hand through his hair in a rare tell. "There's been some...activity at the docks. People asking questions they shouldn't."

Docks? My mouth goes dry. "What kind of questions?"

"The kind that get people hurt." His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I see past the controlled facade to something raw. "Someone's trying to get inside my organization. The docks, the club..." He laughs without humor. "Hell, they probably want to infiltrate my coffee shop next."

You have no idea how close they already are.

"The club?" I keep my voice casual, though my pulse is thundering. "But it's legitimate. Clean."

"Which makes it the perfect cover." He starts pacing, all contained energy and lethal grace. "Put eyes inside, watch the operation, look for weak points..." He stops suddenly, turning to me. "I need your help."

I blink. "My help?"

"You see everything from that stage. Notice things others miss." His hands cup my face, and the tender gesture nearly breaks me. "Help me find whoever's trying to destroy what I've built. Please."

The last word is soft, almost vulnerable. It would be so easy to say yes. To actually help him. To choose him over the Fiori family and their threats.

So easy to forget that I'm exactly what he's hunting.

"Of course," I hear myself say, the lie tasting like ashes. "Anything you need."

His kiss is fierce, grateful, full of trust I haven't earned and can't keep. I kiss him back just as desperately, trying to memorize how this feels before it all falls apart.

Because it will fall apart. The only question is who'll be left standing in the wreckage.

His phone buzzes again—Tommaso, probably with more news about the docks. But Stefano just silences it, his attention entirely on me.

His mouth crashes into mine again, hungry and demanding. All thoughts of spies and infiltrators disappear as he presses me harder against the makeup counter, sending brushes and compacts scattering. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands grip my hips.

"Security camera," I gasp as his lips trail down my neck.

He growls something that might be Italian, then suddenly I'm being lifted, wrapped around him as he carries me into one of the private dressing rooms. The door slams behind us and I'm pressed against it, his body pinning me in place.

"Come home with me," he demands between kisses. "Now."

"I have another set?—"

"Cancel it." His teeth graze my pulse point. "I need you in my bed. I need to watch you fall apart where no one else can see."

The possessiveness sends heat pooling low in my belly. "Your place then," I agree, already starting to shimmy out of my costume so I can put on my street clothes.

His eyes darken as he watches me change. "Ten minutes. Meet me at the back entrance."

Then he's gone, leaving me trembling, aching, and wondering if I'm about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

Or maybe I already have.

* * *

The elevator doors slide open, and I’m already halfway out before they’ve fully parted. Stefano’s hand is on the small of my back, guiding me forward with an urgency that matches the pounding of my heart.

The penthouse is vast, all glass and steel, with the city lights spilling in like a thousand tiny stars. I don’t have time to admire it. His lips are on mine before the elevator even dings closed behind us.

Kiss isn’t the right word for it. This is something feral, something primal.

His mouth claims mine with a hunger that leaves me breathless, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that sends sparks shooting through my veins.

I gasp into him, my hands clutching at his shoulders as he walks me backward, deeper into the penthouse. My back hits a wall, and he pins me there, his body hard and unyielding against mine.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice low and rough. His hands slide down my sides, fingers digging into my hips as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight.

Maybe I will. The thought flickers through my mind, but it’s gone just as quickly, drowned out by the heat of his touch.

His lips move to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and I gasp, arching into him. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he growls—a sound so visceral it makes my core clench.

“I told you,” he says, nipping at my earlobe, “I need to watch you fall apart.”

His words send a shiver down my spine, and all my doubts wash away. There’s only anticipation, a deep, throbbing ache that’s been building since the moment he backed me against that makeup counter.

His hands slide up under my shirt, calloused fingers brushing against my skin, and I whimper, my hips rocking against his of their own accord.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and burning with need.

“Bed,” he says, and it’s not a request. It’s a command. And I obey without hesitation.