Page 2

Chapter 2

SALVATORE

I pick an imaginary piece of lint off my emerald suit jacket and shift in my seat to cross my ankle over my knee. Half my attention is on Lorenzo’s low, authoritative drone and the other half is focused on not watching Dante dance. The hypnotic bursts of movement I catch out of the corner of my eye test my self-control. This song is one of his favorites to dance to—“Dirty Thoughts”—with a sultry pulse and suggestive lyrics that leave just enough to the imagination to invite a barrage of fantasies, and Dante knows exactly how to stoke them with the sway of his hips as he slowly peels the tight clothes off his temptingly smooth skin.

Alessio’s seat next to mine has a direct view of the stage and he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not looking. His eyes dance with mischief as he interrupts Lorenzo’s briefing about the most recent surveillance of the Fitzpatricks’ slowly expanding organization, irritatingly skirting right along the edges of the city of Wildcliff, which the Morettis have laid claim to, with a wolf whistle.

“Damn, Dante is in rare form tonight. He looks like he wants to tear someone’s throat out with his teeth.” Alessio leans his elbows on the table and whistles a second time.

I shift in my seat again, my cock perking up immediately and a crick forming in my neck with the effort it takes not to turn my head and see for myself. I can picture that feral, violent look in Dante’s eyes easily, I’ve imagined it too damn many times late at night, with my hand around my cock and his name on my lips. Seeing it again would only make me crave him more, and this obsession I have with him is already well past anything reasonable.

Lorenzo stops talking, clearly unamused by the interruption. He pins Alessio with the threateningly stoic look that makes most grown men piss themselves. Of course, none of those other men know Enzo the way any of us do. Would he put a bullet through Les if he absolutely had to? Most likely. But it would take a hell of a lot. It would take Alessio doing things I can’t imagine him ever doing, like betraying The Family or Lorenzo in particular.

On Lorenzo’s right side, Xaviaro’s lips twitch with an almost-grin before his expression melts back into his usual stoic impassiveness.

“Interesting kink, Les,” Elio, Lorenzo’s brother and second-in-command, teases from his other side. “Is it the biting or the rage that’s doing it for you?”

“You’re one to talk. Yes, Boss ,” he mimics the breathy, submissive voice we’ve all heard Elio use around his fiancé when he thinks no one is paying attention. Alessio reaches for the drink in front of him, bringing it to his smirking lips and taking a sip.

The humor on Elio’s face disappears immediately. “Don’t make me order Xaviaro to shoot you.”

Les gasps dramatically. “Would you shoot me, Xav?”

“Eagerly,” the trigger man deadpans.

“And here I thought your little Sparrow was softening you up.” Les purrs Sparrow’s name in the same tone Xaviaro always does when talking about his beloved little vigilante psychopath.

“Nothing soft over here.” Xav even manages to return the teasing innuendo in a bored tone.

“Is it too much to ask that we get through a single meeting without it devolving into a discussion of everyone’s kinks and a series of juvenile dick jokes?” Lorenzo asks with a long-suffering sigh.

“Hey, you’re the one who bought the strip club and decided we should do most of our business here,” Elio points out, joining Alessio briefly in looking towards the stage for the end of Dante’s performance.

“Mm.” Enzo drums his fingers on the table. “I thought we could all enjoy the view, but maybe I overestimated your ability to stay on task with so many tempting distractions.”

I stifle a snort at how formal he sounds, like a professor with a major stick up his ass. It’s hard to reconcile the stoic, commanding Mafia Boss Lorenzo with the goofy cousin I grew up with, climbing trees and catching toads to sneak into each other’s lunch boxes as a prank. The shadow of exhaustion constantly smudged under his eyes tells me all I need to know about how stressful it must be to be in his position—essentially running a multi-million-dollar corporation where the retirement plan is a car bomb or a bullet in the back of the head more often than not. He’ll never admit it, but I think that’s why he holds our meetings here. He likes that even now, with all the weight on our shoulders, we’re still the same horny idiots we were before he became the most feared man in the city.

The music fades briefly and the swell of cheers signals an end to Dante’s performance. My shoulders sag with relief and I let out a slow, steady breath. I made it the full hour without looking. Much, anyway. A few quick peeks hardly count.

“Sorry. We’ll behave.” Alessio holds up his hands in surrender.

The thin line of Lorenzo’s mouth tells me he knows as well as the rest of us that a promise to behave from Les will only last until another distraction comes along.

“Right, as I was saying, I have Vander and Grif continuing to feed me any information they receive about what the Fitzpatricks are up to, and a few of our men on rotation surveilling every one of Declan Fitzpatrick’s moves, both waking and sleeping. That man doesn’t blow his nose without me getting a report about it.”

Alessio shoots me an amused look and I swallow the delight that threatens to show on my face. As casual as we are with Lorenzo most of the time, none of us are stupid enough to comment on just how much of his attention seems to be fixated on the gorgeous Irish boss. He might actually shoot us for that one.

“So, still no moves on that yet?” Elio confirms, and Lorenzo nods.

“It’s still a ‘wait and see’ for now. I don’t want to go to war with them if we can avoid it, but it might be necessary eventually if they keep pushing their boundaries.”

We all nod, and Lorenzo leans back in his seat, signaling that he’s finished with the briefing. Even though I know Dante’s performance is over, I reflexively turn my head to glance towards the stage, but the view is obscured by a much better one.

The clothes Dante shed and tossed into the crowd are no doubt long gone, but he’s pulled on another pair of skintight shorts, unbuttoned to show off the lacy thong he has on underneath as he struts towards our table with an air of confidence and violence that wafts around him like cologne. My jaw tightens briefly at the thought of what those men plan to do with their trophies—what I would do with a pair of Dante’s skimpy shorts still warm from his body heat. But I don’t have long to think about it before he stops less than a foot from me, glitter sparkling on his eyelids and the metal piercing his nipples and belly button shimmering in the club lights. I wonder if he has anything else pierced.

“Don’t they even let you take a smoke break between getting off stage and sending you out to take drink orders and get groped?” Elio’s tone is friendly and conversational, but the urge to rip his eyes out for even daring to look at Dante nearly chokes me.

“Normally they would.” Dante puts his hands on the table and leans in like he’s going to tell us all a secret. The move brings him close, the smell of his sweat and spicy cologne tickling my nose and hardening my cock, tempting me to shift closer and drag my tongue over the fluttering pulse point in his throat. “But the rumor around here is that you boys are a bunch of terrifying criminals, so some of the guys are a little nervous to serve you.”

“Kill one stripper for bringing us the wrong drink and suddenly we’re ‘dangerous criminals.’” Alessio flashes Dante a teasing grin, and even Lorenzo rumbles a low laugh at the joke.

“You’re not afraid of us, Angioletto?” I drag my tongue along my lower lip slowly, watching the predictably steady beat of Dante’s pulse.

He turns his head towards me, a wicked smile spreading over his lush lips.

“Baby, I’ve left scarier men than you bleeding.” The threat itself isn’t what sends the delicious spike of heat through me, it’s the glint in his eyes that tells me he’s not lying. “Besides…” He leans in even closer, so close I can taste his breath dancing across my lips on his next exhale. My balls tighten and everything inside me aches to drag him onto the table and bury my tongue between his lips. “I never get a drink order wrong.”

He winks and pulls back before I can do something as stupid as act on the horny impulse to kiss him. It’s not just that I think he would bite my tongue off if I tried it that’s stopping me. I never touch a man unless he begs.

DANTE

Salvatore’s expensive cologne lingers in my nose even after I walk away from the table of mafiosos. For one brief, flickering second the heat in his eyes threatened to make me feel something other than blinding rage and disgust. Fuck me, that would be stupid, and not just because he’s in the Mafia.

Actually, if anything, the blood on Salvatore’s hands is a benefit. I know just last night I was telling myself that I don’t need to be any more involved with the Morettis than I already am. Between the friendly banter when they come in and the contract hacking work I did for them last year, I’ve already cozied up to them more than most people would dare to. But maybe I’m thinking about this the wrong way. They like me well enough, I’m sure they wouldn’t want to see anything bad happen to me…

Then again, why should they care? They’re not two-bit criminals, licking their chops at any excuse for a little violence. They’re running a business, albeit an illegal one, where death and destruction just happen to be part of routine operations. My problems aren’t their problems, and I’m not sure it’s worth whatever it would take to convince them otherwise.

A sick, inky feeling of dread creeps up my spine at the memory of the letter I got last night. Maybe I’ll keep my options open, and finding a way to convince the Morettis to save my ass can be a backup plan for now.

I’m so lost in my thoughts as I make my way towards the bar to get their drinks that I don’t even notice the man leering at me until he’s out of his chair and planting himself directly in my path.

“Hey there, beautiful.” He rakes his eyes over me like I’m a piece of meat, and I force a smile that’s probably closer to a snarl than anything friendly. “I was rock hard the entire time you were on stage. You’re something else.”

He takes a step closer, and I hold my ground, straightening myself up to my full height, which isn’t bad when I’m in my platform heels, but still barely brings us eye to eye.

“Thanks, sugar. Private dance is five hundred if you’re interested, I just have to grab a few drinks for another table first.”

He balks. “Five hundred? Cutie last week only cost a hundred, and that was full service.”

“We set our own prices and mine is five hundred, dance only . The only way to get full service from me is to impress me, and you’re not off to a great start.”

His eyes narrow and my pulse kicks up. Oh, honey, if you want to play, I’d love the excuse to throw hands. Adrenaline has been coursing through me ever since I read that fucking letter and I would love the excuse to do something with it.

“I’m not paying five hundred dollars.”

I shrug. “No problem. Have a nice night.”

I move to skirt around him, but apparently he’s too smooth brained to know just how fucking stupid it is to piss me off. He wraps his arms around me from behind, bringing his large, sweaty body into contact with mine. Feral, animal rage courses through me instantly, coiling in my muscles and scattering all rational thoughts to the wind until the only one remaining is to bite and claw and hurt anyone who dares to touch me without my permission.

I snarl and snap my elbow back, savoring the pained yelp he lets out and the feeling of his nose crunching before a hot, sticky burst of his blood coats the back of my arm.

“Ew,” I yowl. “You bled on me, you fucking prick.” He’s already stumbling back, but I give him a hand by whirling around to face him and shoving him in the chest.

“You broke my nose, you psychopath,” he mumbles, his hands over his mouth and nose, crimson blood spilling down his chin and staining the front of his formerly crisp white shirt. “I’m going to get you fired. No, fuck that, I’m going to have you charged with assault.”

I refuse to flinch, but the second threat hits its mark. Typically, a simple assault like breaking someone’s nose is a misdemeanor if that, but when you’ve already done prison time for aggravated assault? Yeah, I’d rather not find out how that would impact the court’s opinion of the situation. And, fuck, it would be a pain in the ass to lose this job too. No way am I going to apologize though. I glare at him, tempted to knee him in the balls too for daring to threaten me. You know what? Fuck it, he fucking deserves it. I snarl again and take another step forward, preparing to strike and make this asshole wish he’d never set foot inside Wild.

“I wouldn’t do that.” A smooth voice cuts in before I can find out if lodging this prick’s balls permanently inside his body with my knee will help the situation or make it worse. “You’re drunk and we all saw you trip and break your nose on the edge of the table. No need to cause trouble for anyone else over your own clumsiness, is there?”

He looks over his shoulder with a glare, and his face goes pale so quickly I’m surprised he doesn’t faint from the combined terror and blood loss. Salvatore stands behind him with a dangerous glint in his eye, his suit jacket unbuttoned so the handle of his pistol is just barely visible, the threat clear as day.

The man bobbles his head like he can’t decide if he’s saying yes or no before he mumbles an apology. His large frame trembles like he’s dying to make a run for it, but he’s afraid that if he moves, it’ll trigger Salvatore to chase. And Salvatore clearly enjoys toying with him for a moment, holding his gaze with the simmering menace dancing in his dark eyes.

“Go,” he barks, and the man flees, still clutching his bleeding nose.

The blood on the back of my arm is starting to dry, crusting and sticky on my skin, making bile rise in my throat. Salvatore steps into the space left empty by the grabby creep, his gaze sweeping over my face like he’s looking for any sign of distress or injury. I stare right back at him, my jaw still set firmly and my heart still racing with the unspent adrenaline.

“This is the part where you say, ‘thank you,’ Angioletto.”

“Thank you?” I scoff, grinding my teeth, my brain still operating on its animal level instead of a logical one, drawing me into his space, shoving at his chest the way I did to the other asshole. Salvatore doesn’t stumble though. He doesn’t budge, which means I’m just up in his face, breathing heavily, full of anger that just keeps building inside my chest. “In case you missed it, I already had him handled,” I growl.

“I saw that.” His tone is still perfectly even, in spite of my snarling.

“Exactly.” I shove him again, and he still doesn’t budge, but I swear a grin flickers at the corners of his lips. “Don’t ever mistake me for someone who can’t take care of himself.”

“Never, Angioletto,” he purrs, still so fucking agreeable, heat simmering in his eyes that should make me feel disgusted and violated, just like everyone else does.

I want to rage and scream at him more, I want to see what it would take to get him to respond, to make him show me the violence I know is lurking inside of him. Luckily, enough self-preservation kicks in to stop me.

“Fuck you,” I growl, turning on my heel.

If he responds, I can’t hear it over the music as I stomp towards the bathroom to clean myself up and pull myself back together.