Page 1 of Satin Empire

Chapter 1

Alana

I sneak into the strip club armed with an oversized hoodie and a black and white grainy picture my cousin texted me a couple of days ago.

This is not my first titty bar. I didn’t exactly grow up around these places, but when Gran died and Mom found herself shouldering the burden of a ten-year-old girl with no help, no real maternal instinct to speak of, a house that needed constant repairs, and a lifestyle that involved a serious amount of designer clothing, she turned to dancing to help pay the extra bills.

Which meant that when most kids were playing sports after school or watching cartoons, I was sitting in the back of a strip club that smelled like sweat and body glitter doing math homework and listening to the other dancers tell stories about their clients. Most of those stories involved things I didn’t understand and definitely weren’t appropriate for little old ten-year-old Alana.

Now though, I love a good small-dick joke as much as anyone else.

The bouncer checks my ID and waves me through. It’s not common for girls to come alone to places like this, but not totally unheard of. I keep my hood down and I have a baseball hat pulled low over my eyes. The club is crowded for a Thursday night at ten, and I pause near a table to watch a very attractive blonde girl do some shockingly acrobatic moves that leave her twisted into positions that would probably end with me in the ER if I tried them.

My heart’s racing, and I’m nervous as hell as I grab a seat in the back and sit down in the booth. I grab my phone and text Noah, my hands shaking slightly.

Alana: This is so weird. I feel like people are staring at me.

Noah: Nobody’s staring. Just take deep breaths. You have that picture, right?

Alana: Yeah, but it’s really crappy. I mean, seriously, how am I supposed to recognize him with this thing?

I pull up the photo in my images app. It shows a man in three-quarter profile, handsome, with a square jaw, dark hair, and an expensive suit. He’s walking toward a Lexus parked along the curb. I can’t tell much more about him though—the shot’s grainy, not in color, and the guy’s wearing freaking sunglasses.

Noah: It’s the best I could do, okay? It’s not like there are tons of high-res images of mafia princes sitting around on the internet. They’re pretty careful.

Alana: I know, I’m just getting nervous. What if he doesn’t show up?

Noah: He will, I promise. Just be patient.

But my cousin must not know me very well, because patience is not one of my many wonderful traits.

Decent at singing? Sure, I sound amazing in the car when the volume’s turned up loud. Hilarious and charming? I’ve been told I’m the life of the party. Mostly by my mother when I was a little girl, but I’m holding onto that. Knowledgeable and kind? Now I’m just making stuff up but, whatever, I’m the best.

I have an encyclopedic knowledge of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I’ve listened to every One Direction album like fifty thousand times and feel no shame about it, and I don’t take shit from anyone, ever. I had to learn that last one the hard way. Because if I take shit in my family, I let everyone walk all over me—it’s a very give an inch, take a mile sort of mindset in the Milano Famiglia.

But most of all, I hate feeling like I don’t know what’s happening.

Another wonderful trait: control freak.

Mom calls me fussy. Noah says I’m like an old lady trapped in a young girl’s body.

I think I had to grow up real fast after my mother got married when I was twelve and thrust me into an entirely new world I never could’ve imagined.

Ten minutes pass. I watch another dancer take the stage, this girl brunette and curvy. She’s got amazing moves too—seriously, do they hire former acrobats or something?—and I keep scanning, the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man in the photos.

Except I don’t see him. There are a few guys that could be him, but none that totally match. The men in here are a mix of old and young, affluent and poor, and they tend to hang around in packs. None of them are my man.

Another girl takes the stage, then another. Every new guy that walks into the club sets my heart fluttering, but none of them are him. The waitress approaches a few times but I don’t order anything. I need to keep my wits about me.

Because I finally get impatient and decide to do something stupid.

Alana: I’m going into the back.

Noah: Hold up. Wait a second. That’s not part of the plan.

Alana: Forget the plan.

Noah: Never forget the plan!!! That’s the whole point of the plan!!!

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