Page 30 of Tormented Oath

"Made great tips though." I wink, catching the hair tie. "Never underestimate the power of making men think they're smart. Everything's a performance," I say, more to myself than to her. It's my mother's old saying, one of the few useful things she taught me.

The dressing room bustles with its usual pre-show energy. Girls touching up makeup, adjusting costumes, trading intel about which customers to charm and which to avoid. In just a week, I've learned more about Chicago's power players from the dancers than the Fiori family ever told me.

Speaking of which...

I check my phone, finding another terse message from my handler.

>> Need progress report. Meet tonight.

"Earth to Ava!" Kira throws another sparkly hair tie at my head. "You're up in five. Unless you're too busy sexting the boss."

I arch an eyebrow at her. "Jealous?"

"Please." She snorts, but there's genuine affection in it. "I just can't believe you got Stefano fucking Rega to look at you more than once. Do you know how many girls have tried?"

Yes, everyone saw Stefano staring at me, and ever since then, I've been the hot topic among the other dancers.

If they only knew the history there.

Instead of answering, I finish my stretches and check my reflection. The stage outfit I’ve chosen shows enough skin to draw attention but has enough class to maintain mystique. Just like everything else in my life lately, it's a careful balance between opposites.

"Time to earn my keep," I say, heading for the stage.

Kira catches my arm, voice dropping. "Seriously though...you're good for him. He actually smiled yesterday. The bouncers nearly had heart attacks."

The simple observation shouldn't hurt this much. It shouldn't make guilt twist in my stomach like a knife.

But as I step onto the stage, letting the music wash over me, I push it all away. Right now, I'm not Ava the spy, or Ava the con artist, or even Ava the girl drowning in complications.

Right now, I'm just a dancer. And damn if I'm not good at it.

The routine starts slow: a deliberate walk around the pole, letting the bass guide my movements. This part is pure performance, but there's freedom in it as well. The freedom of knowing exactly who I am and what I'm doing, even if it's just for these few minutes.

Money starts appearing on the stage, the trust fund babies living up to Kira's prediction. I collect it with practiced grace, adding extra flair to my moves just because I can. Just because it feels good to be in complete control of something for once.

Then I feel it—that electric awareness that means one particular set of eyes is on me. I don't have to look to know Stefano's at the bar, watching. His presence changes the air in the room, makes my skin prickle.

Well then. Might as well give him a show.

I transition into a more complex sequence, letting my body do what it does best. Each spin, each pose is technically perfect, but now there's an edge to it. A heat. Every movement becomes a promise, a tease, a reminder of other ways my body can move.

When I finally do glance his way, the look in his eyes nearly stops my heart. Because this isn't just lust or possession, though there's plenty of both on his face. This is something deeper. Something that looks dangerously like worship.

* * *

Backstage, the high from performing fades into something darker, more complicated. My burner phone buzzes in my locker with another message from the Fioris, no doubt wondering why I haven't found anything incriminating yet.

But it’s because there's nothing to find. The Silk Rose is exactly what it appears to be: a high-end club run with military precision and surprising heart. The books are clean, the girls are protected, and the only thing being laundered is the endless supply of silky robes in the dressing room.

Kira snaps her fingers in front of my face. "You're doing that thing again where you zone out and look like you're plotting world domination."

I force a laugh. "Just thinking about those law students. Think they'd notice if I worked some Machiavelli into my next set?"

"Girl, you are—" She stops mid-sentence, eyes widening at something over my shoulder. The air changes, and I know he’s here.

Stefano.

"Taking a break?" His voice slides down my spine like warm honey. When I turn, he's leaning against the doorframe in a deceptively casual way.

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