Page 15 of Devious Lies

I’m not here to make friends or find love. I am here because Mami needs me.

Someone is shouting for a bartender, and I wave goodbye to Giselle and Anna and I turn to my next customer.

The bar is crowded, and the DJ is slamming tonight.

The Viper’s Den is a total hot spot. So deceiving from the outside. But lies are a real theme around here.

The Vipers pretend to be regular businessmen, but I know the truth. They’re criminals. Gangsters. Mafia. Whatever you call them, it all adds up to one thing.

They are violent, unhinged criminals.

And I am surprisingly okay with that. In fact, I need that in my life.

The Vipers are the only ones I know strong enough to take on Matteo Sanchez.

His brother Junior has taken over the cartel, and word is, he turns a blind eye to the nefarious goings on of his brother.

I cringe as I think about Matteo’s threats, and the plans he has for me if he ever finds me.

It seems silly after six years, thinking he is still looking. But I know it’s not silly.

He’s been coming by more frequently, ever since Mami got sick.

That rotten bastard is crazy if he thinks I will ever be his.

“Yo! I’m trying to get a drink here,” the customer shouts, and I snap my gaze back to him.

Terrific.

He’s obviously drunk, even though it’s early. I’m already shaking my head even as I place a glass of ice water down in front of him.

“Have some water,” I say, but he glares at it.

“What’s this? Nah, baby, lemme get a shot of Henny,” he slurs.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from rolling my eyes.

I can’t tell you how many people try to put on a front, pounding back shots of Hennessy like they are superstars, instead of savoring the cognac as is recommended by experts.

I’m not particularly fond of the stuff myself.

We just got a new shipment of platinum bottles from Whiskey Neat, and I have to admit I love that Jersey based label.

“Sorry, no can do. Have some water right now, okay? I can bring out some pretzels and check on you in a bit,” I say, trying to placate him.

“Did I ask you for pretzels, puta?” he explodes.

He slaps the glass of water, so it shoots backwards and spills all over the bar and splashes on my face and chest, plastering my silk shirt to my skin.

He steps on the footrest and reaches over the bar, his hands clawing at me.

I don’t know why I can’t move or run or, I don’t know, something.

But I can’t.

I’m just frozen in place. Like a statue.

My heart is beating a mile a minute and I’m breathing like a marathon runner as flashes of another man’s hands grabbing at me come flooding into my brain.

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