Page 75 of Assassin's Obsession

Does he really not know? "Sex workers are considered morally corrupt."

And I make my living in the sex industry.

"So are made men." He shrugs. "Makes sense. We kill to get made."

"Innocent people?" I ask, knowing I hope the answer is no.

"No. We're not street thugs. It's not about proving ourselves with a random act of violence. It's about proving our loyalty tola famigliaby protecting it. The Army required the same from me, but they didn't call it getting made."

"What did they call it?" Unable to help myself, I put my hand over a tattoo of the grim reaper on his chest.

This is how he sees himself.

His big hand settles over mine, pressing my fingers into his skin. "My job."

"Harsh."

He shrugs. "I learned what I needed to serve the Genovese and protected my country while I did it."

I get that. "I love to dance and doing it at the Pitiful Princess allows me to support my mom and sister while I do it. Even if other people think I should be happy to let them do without and get a so-called respectable job."

"Does that bother you?" He moves us so we're standing under the shower rain again.

"I grew a thick skin about being judged before I ever went into foster care." My mom was a stripper, and I wore trash bags as rain gear. Other kidsandtheir parents judged me and mom plenty. "My experiences in the system only put callouses on that skin."

"Close your eyes. This shampoo isn't supposed to burn, but let's not take any chances." He pulls a bottle out of an alcove in the wall and squirts some liquid into his hand. "I have a list of people who hurt you. I want you to look at it and add names that are missing."

"Why?" I love the coconut and vanilla smell of the shampoo and wallow in it a little.

It smells like the stuff I buy from the discount grocery store, only the scents are pleasantly natural, not chemical.

"So I can kill them." The gentleness of his touch as he works the shampoo into my hair is at odds with the ruthless dismissal of human life in his words.

Yeah, that's not going to happen.

"Seeing you skewer that man's hand last Spring didn't upset me," I admit to my personal avenging angel. "It made me feel protected."

"Good."

"But I'm not going to make a list of people for you to hurt on my behalf and I'd prefer if you got rid of the one you've made."

He doesn't answer and I get the feeling that his list isn't going anywhere.

"Sometimes, when I dance, I pretend I'm at a theater, performing in a big stage production," I admit, to get his mind off killing people from my past.

The only one I would voluntarily put on that list is the foster father from my last placement before coming to live with mom. But he's already dead.

Some random mugger made the world safer for vulnerable girls by stabbing him to death a week after I was pulled from his home.

"What else do you fantasize about?" Strong fingers massage my scalp.

I groan my appreciation for how good that feels. "Some nights I like to remember how happy my birth mom was to come to the recital at the community center when I was five and I danced for her."

Running his fingers through my hair, Angelo helps the suds wash away. They're tear-free as advertised, but I keep my eyes closed. It's easier to share my private thoughts in the dark cocoon that creates around me.

My fantasies probably aren't what other people expect an exotic dancer to think about. I learned early that most people buy into the fantasy of the sexually charged woman who gets off on turning men on.

The customers are convinced every dancer on the stage and pole is picturing them in her mind as her body moves so sensually.

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