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)
The dancers—my coworkers for all of fifty-five minutes—are huddled in the cold, arms crossed, legs bare, and makeup smudged, waiting to be let back in after being forced out for something more sinister than a code pink.
They’re all silently scalding me.
Every one of them.
Except Santo.
He stands apart from the group. His shoulders are hunched, hands shoved in his pockets. His expression isn’t angry. It’s… apologetic. What the hell?
He couldn’t have prevented what happened. Hell, I couldn’t stop it, so there’s no reason for him to feel incompetent. We’re mere pawns existing in the same orbit as the immortals.
As I walk past the dancers glaring at me, their eyes say everything.
You ruined our shift.
You cost us money.
You embarrassed yourself.
The remainder of their taunts isn’t suitable to share.
A brick lodges in my throat when my eyes land on Giana, the announcer of the code pink. She doesn’t glare at me, but she doesn’t smile either. Her expression is tight and calculating. She was hopeful I’d stay on as a bartender, assuming having the person responsible for Dante’s purchase of her sinking ship on payroll would keep her in favor with the Carusos, but after witnessing the dancers’ reaction to my exit from the club, she knows that’s no longer a good idea.
They’re not willing to share their tips with me. They’d rather starve. I can feel it in the air.
I’m not welcome in their realm.
Not anymore.
My confidence is nonexistent, but I force myself to walk past with my head held high.
Santo prepares to say something. His mouth opens, but I cut him off with the coldness Dante used when he realized his prime candidate for the nanny position he needs filled isn’t someone who opens her legs after only a handful of flatteries.
I turn on my heel and walk away until the iciness of my snub numbs everything. If freezing my heart will stop it from being irreparably scarred, I’ll do that.
It can’t withstand any more damage. One more knock and it’ll be unfixable.
My boots click on the pavement as I speed walk down the alleyway. I don’t look back to see if Dante is following. I can’t handle the disappointment.
Cars rush past with blaring horns, and people chatter while hustling in and out of stores. It all blends into white noise as I walk and walk and walk. Hours pass unnoticed, and the sun sinks, turning the sky a bruised purple.
As streetlights flicker on, my feet throb, but I keep going because stopping means facing the mess I’ve created.
Every time I stop to rest, Camille’s soccer cleats tapping against a strip club’s floor flash before my eyes. And the way Dante stepped back the second she appeared. Gosh. That hurt. But the way he looked at me afterward, like we weren’t finished, sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t in fear.
The contrasting emotions battering me are debilitating.
I end up near the mouth of the river without meaning to. The water is dark, and it reflects the city lights in broken streaks. Leaning against the railing, I grip the cold metal until my fingers go numb.
In the quiet, my smarts turn back on.
Why am I wandering the streets? I understand I need to keep my distance from Dante—attachments only ever end badly for me—but I left the club without signing anything. I didn’t fill out a single line of the employment contract Giana gave me. That means Dante can’t show up at my door unannounced. I’m safe to go home. Regretfully.
I’m skeptical that security will last long if I don’t find a job. I sent every last cent I had to Edoardo for a brief two-minute FaceTime with my son. It was nowhere near long enough, but like all dangerous drugs, it was enough to hook me.
I’d give anything for biweekly calls.
Hating that my first thought is to exploit Dante’s obsessive compulsions, I dig my phone out of my pocket. The screen unforgivingly illuminates my face as I scroll through the businesses I researched last week.
One by one, I call them.
The first manager picks up on the second ring.
“Hi, I’m calling about the position you had advertised in the classifieds of the Carlisle Chr—”
“Position’s no longer available,” he cuts in. “Ownership changed hands, and we no longer need… staff.”
I flinch when he ends our call with the unexpected slam of a landline phone.
After a quick shimmer of my shoulder, I move on to the next business on the list.
My stomach falls to my feet when I get a similar response to the first call.
“Ownership changed hands.”
“Who’s the new owner?”
After a brief pause, he says hesitantly, “Caruso Holdings.”
I end our call before he can say anything else.
The next establishment gives the same answer.
And the next.
And the next.
By the fifth call, my hands shake so badly that I almost drop my phone.
Dante didn’t lie. He bought every club in the country. Every single one. Except he didn’t stop at strip clubs. He took prostitution off the table for me as well.