Page 4 of Satin Empire

I keep going. I shake my butt, sure, might as well make it a little bit sexy, before I finally pull the hoodie off?—

Revealing my Buffy the Vampire Slayer t-shirt.

Sarah Michelle Geller stares out at the crowd, pouting a little, and gripping a stake like she’s about to do some serious slaying.

It’s beyond not sexy. It’s the least sexy thing imaginable.

The guys freaking love it.

They’re shouting and cheering and whistling like a bunch of craved construction workers.

I’m getting into it now. There are bills all over the stage as I do the sprinkler and pretend to ride a pony, whipping my ass and galloping to the beat. Every lame move I can think of, I tease my body a little, and let myself get real dorky. Seriously, the worse it is, the more the guys are howling for more, which only pushes me harder, because apparently I’m a sucker for peer pressure and positive attention.

That’s how I end up yanking my t-shirt off, throwing it aside, and showing off my bra-covered boobs.

This is too much. Seriously, I’m not the voyeur type, and I’m definitely far from outgoing despite all this nonsense. I don’t mind acting like a clown for laughs but now the guys are getting downright horny for my body and I’m running out of geeky moves. But the thought of Helmuth breaking my arms keeps me going as I unbutton my jean shorts and kick them away.

I’m in the least revealing pair of boy shorts imaginable.

More howls of desire. I’m not exactly rhythmically blessed, but I can at least move my hips a little, and the look I get from the DJ is a strange mixture of loathing and amusement. I notice Gina sitting next to the stage and she mimes taking off her bra and taps her wrist like I’m running out of time, and I wonder if there’s some kind of contractual obligation for a stripper to show her bare nipples or if I can just call it quits here.

But hell, I’ve already gone over the deep end, and my life is ending soon anyway.

I’m getting married to some strange guy I don’t know because if I don’t, my stepfather will literally cut my throat, and I will never, ever get another chance like this to do something so wild and so stupid in my life.

I’m young, I’ve barely broken the rules, and my boobs are actually pretty damn good—it’d be a waste if only the four guys that have felt me up ever get to see them, plus this random stranger I’m getting sold off to, assuming I ever let him touch me.

Which is why I reach back and grab the hooks. My heart’s racing and sweat’s rolling down my back. I’ve never felt less attractive, but never wanted to be bad more in my entire life.

I unclasp and hold the cups to my chest, teasing the guys, getting the crowd of horny perverts all riled up, and more money flies through the air—there’s got to be a couple hundred crumpled on the stage—and I’m about to let them free, about to show my boobs to a room full of strangers because why the hell not, I’m feeling strong and incredible, these gross perverts are eating out of my hands and I am their goddess, I have control over this situation and that’s a power I’ve never experienced before, and all I have to do is show them my boobs to make them go absolutely apeshit, and I’ve never looked better in my life and may never look this good again so why not share myself with the world, which means I’m going to do it, I’m going to take off my bra for these sickos and weirdos, and they’re going to love the shit out of me?—

And that’s when he steps up onto the stage.

Chapter 3

Carlo

It’s a little after ten when I roll up to Pretty Kitty.

I park out front and sit in the Lexus. The last thing I want to do is go hang around in that strip club right now. It’s been a long night—we spent most of the day hunting down some Russian Bratva pricks that knocked over one of our affiliated money-laundering businesses, but never found them—and this is my least favorite job.

Managing the Rossi Famiglia’s clubs isn’t exactly fucking glamorous, but it’s what my older brother Renzo assigned me. And when Don Renzo speaks, we all obey. That’s how the organization works, and I don’t normally mind it, but on nights like this, I wish I had something better to do with my time.

Instead, I park and head in through the front. I spot Helmuth hanging around near the bar, that massive prick taking up two stools, and both of them straining. I flag a waitress and tell her to get me a whiskey before I lean up next to my manager.

“New girl’s about to go on,” he says with a grunt and manages to shift his bulk enough that he’s facing the stage. “She kept asking about you. Said you two were supposed to talk.”

“I don’t know anything about a new girl,” I say to him and accept the drink when it arrives. I’m barely involved in the day-to-day affairs at the Pretty Kitty. Mostly I’m invested in running the war against the Russians, and I only ever show up here out of obligation to my Don. But it’s a damn waste of my time.

“That’s what I figured. Don’t know why these girls think they can name-drop like that’ll fucking matter. Maybe she was just a fan.”

“I hope so. It’s a bad sign when I have a fan. How the hell does she even know I’m involved with this place? It’s not like my name’s on the lease.”

“Don’t know,” Helmuth admits. “Want me to look into her?”

“Nah, it’s fine. Forget it. I’ll talk to her when she’s off the stage.”

He grunts and I take my drink, wandering closer. The lights are dimmed low as Sherry Liquor collects her tips and shakes her ass to some loud trap beat. I shove half my whiskey down my throat and think about leaving when the DJ announces the new girl’s set. He calls her Candy Delicious, which is an awful stripping name, and the opening chords of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” blare through the speakers.

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