Page 1 of Unhinged Little Angel

Chapter 1

DANTE

The smell of weed and cigarettes clings to my skin and lingers on the back of my tongue, my lungs burning and a cough tickling my throat as I pass through a cloud of smoke hanging heavily in the dressing room. The row of mirrors hanging on the yellowed wall are all clouded with years of smoky buildup and smudges of makeup, hazily reflecting the countertops lined with spilled vials of glitter and white powder directly beneath them. I snort with amusement like I always do at the smoke detector sitting on the far end of the counter, filled with ashes and a hundred stubbed-out cigarettes and joints.

“You going to show the rest of us up with a fancy new routine again tonight?” Lucifer’s reflection meets my gaze in the mirror as he runs his fingers through the long locks of his dyed auburn hair, making sure they’ll spill over his broad shoulders just right when he struts out onto the stage a little later.

A wicked grin spreads over my lips, flashing entirely too many teeth for it to be mistaken for anything friendly. Maybe it would be easier to make friends if I didn’t take so much pleasurein intimidating and outperforming the rest of the dancers, but where would the fun be in that?

“Aw, I’ll try to leave them with some cash in their wallets for you, baby.” I wink, bending down to adjust the lace on the heels that climb all the way up my calves, ending below my knees.

“We’re more worried about you leaving a few fingers unbroken so they can pull their wallets out for us,” Damnation mutters, sticking a neatly rolled joint between his crimson lips and lighting it.

“Well, no promises on that one.” I straighten back up, tugging my leather vest and tight red shorts into their proper places again.

Noisy chatter and laughter from the other dancers blends with the thump of hypnotic music coming from the front of house. An eager tremor works its way through my muscles. When I used to dream of being on stage, dancing under the glare of hot lights with hundreds of people watching in rapture and awe, being the lead attraction at Wild wasn’t what I had in mind. But my body doesn’t know the difference, doesn’t care that everyone out there is salivating to see my ass, not my adagio.

I hear my cue and everything else fades away. The music pulses through me as I push the curtain aside and step out onto the stage that might as well have been built for me alone. Wolf whistles and cheers swell briefly over the pulsing bass, but the colored lights dancing over my skin blind me to any of their faces. I’ll adjust to the strobing colors eventually, and then I’ll notice every last one of them, leering, panting, dragging their hungry gazes over me, their eyes sparkling with predatory intent. But for a few minutes, it’s just me and the music.

The song I chose starts with a slow, sultry rhythm. I roll my hips to the beat of it, letting it stroke over my skin and seduce me the way no other person has ever truly managed. I grip the pole with one hand and artfully fall into the move, finding a fluiditythat feels more natural than breathing and swinging my legs up to wrap around it. The grip of the metal against my skin is sure to leave bruises, but I’m used to it, just like I spent years getting used to the numbing feeling of my ballet shoes.

More cheers ring out. I could do this pole routine in my sleep, but that doesn’t stop my heart from pounding with the thrill of it. Clinging to the pole with the strength of my thighs alone, I yank the buttons on my vest apart before putting my hands on the stage to flip myself off the pole. I smirk and slowly shrug my open vest off my shoulders, still rocking my hips to the beat. My eyes are adjusted to the stage lights now, sweeping absently over the jackals pressing themselves close to the stage, like starving animals salivating for a meal. If they look at me and see an injured gazelle, easy pickings to slake the gnawing, greedy pit inside themselves, they’re sorely mistaken.

I near the edge of the stage to toss my vest into the crowd, and sure enough, one of them is stupid enough to try his luck. A hand snakes out of the shadows in a bold movement, full of privileged expectation, groping for me with the clear mindset of a man who thinks thatwantingsomething entitles him to take it without question. I don’t hesitate for a second, a thrill even more heady than the one I felt before stepping on stage rushing through me as I bring the sharp point of my heel down, pinning the hand to the stage with unrepentant force.

The men around him back up quickly, some trading knowing looks. Clearly, these naughty boys didn’t warn their friend what happens when they don’t follow the rules at Wild. With my weight still pressed into my heel, I crouch down and look directly into the eyes of the man who dared to try to touch me.

“You have trouble reading, sweetie?” I purr.

His eyes dart to the side, looking for help from his entourage and finding none. He swallows hard and shakes his head quickly, not daring to move any more than that.

“Perfect,” I coo sweetly. “Then make sure you have one more quick read of the No Touching signs plastered all over the club. If you get tripped up on any of the big words like ‘no,’ just let me know and I’ll be happy to go over it with you.” I grind my heel down harder one last time, savoring the choked gasp he keeps clenched behind his teeth before I stand back up and move my foot.

He retracts his hand even faster than he reached for me and melts into the shadows again. I’m sure I’ll have to hear another lecture from Cyrus, the manager, before the end of my shift tonight. It’ll be some bullshit about people paying to seefriendlystrippers, not to get their hands broken. If that were true though, I wouldn’t be the most popular dancer here. They want me to put them in their places. If they didn’t, would crumpled bills be flooding the stage now?

I continue my dance, gathering up the cash as I go and tucking it into the waist of my silky black G-string after peeling my shorts off.

On a Saturday night, with hundreds of men inside this club, all focused on me right here center stage, it should be impossible to feel one specific pair of eyes on me, but I swear they’re a physical caress. I’m well practiced at ignoring them, but that doesn’t stop the prickle of irritation from creeping up. The sultry expression I’m going for as I do another spin around the pole hardens slowly into a glare, and when my feet are planted firmly on the stage again, I can’t stop my gaze from going straight to him.

In the dim lighting beyond the stage, surrounded by a sea of faceless voyeurs, I couldn’t miss Salvatore Moretti if I wanted to. And believe me, I want to. I’m already more involved than I want to be with the Morettis and the well-dressed mafioso who only seems to have eyes for me. If my heart beats a little faster, it’s only because I’m starting to overheat. If I stare at him afew extra seconds, missing the cue for my next move by several beats, it’s only because some animal part of my brain knows how dangerous he is and knows better than to look away too quickly or show any signs of fear.

Not that I’m afraid of Salvatore, leaning back in his chair with heat in his eyes and an otherwise impassive expression on his face. The Morettis might own this city, but if they think they can own me… well, they’re welcome to try. I flash my teeth threateningly and keep dancing, my gaze returning to his table more often than I would like as one song blends into the next, one memorized dance after another, until sweat glistens on my smooth skin and the lights flash to signal the end of my set.

I gather up the last of the cash pooled at my feet, ignoring the urge to glance at Salvatore one last time, and strut off stage just as gracefully as I stepped onto it.

“They’re surprisingly well behaved tonight. No broken fingers at all, just one bruised hand,” I announce, waving off the tightly rolled bill Lucifer offers me, white powder clinging to the edges of it and to the rim of his nostril.

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” Damnation chuckles, stubbing out what I’m sure is his second or third joint since I took the stage. His eyes are bloodshot, and he sways a little as he gets to his feet, but I’m sure once he’s out there, he’ll be fine. He always is.

I shrug and chug down the contents of a water bottle, using the back of my hand to wipe my mouth when I’m done. “You should try breaking a finger or two. It’s therapeutic as hell.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re insane?” Damnation asks blandly.

“Every goddamn day, sugar.”

“Dante,” Cyrus barks, cutting through the voices of the other dancers around us.

My hackles rise immediately, and I grind my teeth together.

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