Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
My heart pounds as I walk toward the manager’s office. I’m not nervous—just desperate. If this doesn’t work out, I might have to answer a handful of ads from the wrong side of the classifieds. They’re requesting strippers for “private” performances, but even a novice in this industry can read between those lines.
They want more than a bump and grind.
They want the works.
I don’t want to go down that route, but I’m also desperate to see my son, so I can’t remove anything from the table until I weigh up the benefits it could bring.
Since Gabriele was born into the Cosa Nostra, his value is rated on his gender instead of who he could be. I’m nine million, five hundred, and seventy-eight thousand away from Edoardo rewarding our child’s custody to me. Ten million is the apparent face value of a low-ranking gangster.
An eight-figure payout is out of reach with a regular income, and as much as I like to preach that I’m an optimist more than a pessimist, I won’t be able to deny the truth too much longer. If I want to see my son in person before he turns eighteen, I may need to sell more than my soul.
I have offers. Associates of my father have offered mid six figures to sleep with me, though it could be less now that I’m no longer a virgin. Losing my V-card dropped my value to almost zero, so I won’t mention how bad things got when I fell pregnant after my first time.
The hallway leading to the manager’s office is lined with framed posters of performers. They’re smiling as if they know something I don’t.
My palms sweat as my throat constricts. Like I did the first time I entered a strip club, I tell myself that I need this. I need money and stability if I want any chance of being a mom.
A real mom, not one who only gets to call once a month after depositing a child support payment a Hollywood elite wouldn’t be ordered to pay.
When I reach a door marked Manager, I knock once.
“Come in,” a woman calls from the other side.
The manager, Giana, sits behind a cluttered desk. Her eyeliner masks her true age. Rumors reveal she’s in her mid-forties, but she appears closer to thirty. Her hair is slicked back into a sleek ponytail, and her pursed lips show she won’t tolerate nonsense.
Giana’s scrutiny isn’t cruel—more detached, like she’s evaluating a product instead of a person.
Her penciled brow quirks. “Lulu?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel from hearing my alias spoken out loud.
Using a familiar name makes my cover easier to remember. Throughout childhood, I was called Lulu. Once I grew boobs, the name shifted to Cici.
I only mixed things up because I used Cici with Dante. I don’t know why. It isn’t like he’s scouring the streets of Carlisle for me. My intuition just screamed at me to be cautious after recalling how he purchased Pepenero Privè solely to interact privately with me.
Giana’s nose crinkles. “You’ll need a different stage name. Lulu is too childish.”
I nod, agreeing with her.
She appears pleased with my submissiveness. “Sit.”
I lower myself onto the chair across from her and watch as she flicks through the bare-bones résumé I scraped together. Celesta was sad to see me go, but she allowed me to include her as a reference. I fudged her number, not wanting my details passed on to the new owner of Pepenero Privè. It could end badly for me, but tell me one manager of a strip club who calls to check the references of a dancer.
“You’ve worked in strip clubs before?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Why did you leave your last place so suddenly?”
My stomach somersaults as I force a rehearsed lie through my stern lips. “Personal reasons.”
Since it isn’t a lie, Giana hums but doesn’t push any further. “We pay five hundred per performance. Our share of the tips is twenty percent. If the bar doesn’t make its quota for the night, that goes up to thirty.”
I nod, hopeful its briskness will hide the excitement flaring in my eyes. Five hundred a performance is five times what I was paid at Pepenero Privè. “I understand.”
After closing my thin, one-sheet file, she studies me. I don’t fidget or look away, successfully concealing how badly I need this. She could cut my performance pay in half like Salvator did if she smells my desperation.
Finally, she speaks the words I’m desperate to hear. “You’re hired.”
Relief floods my chest so fast it hurts. “Thank you.”
“Can you start today?” she asks. “Afternoon shift. It’s slow, but it’s a good warmup. You’ll get a feel for the stage and the layout.”
“Today?” I ask in disbelief.
Nodding, Giana hands me a stack of paperwork. “Fill these out before your next shift. Today, we’ll keep your wages off the books.” Excitement bursts through me as she checks her watch. “First open slot is in an hour. If you’re changed and ready by then, it’s yours.”