Page 5 of Tormented Oath

"I told you; I'm working." I blend the edges of my smoky eye, studying my reflection. Dark eyes, darker hair, and olive skin that marks me as my father's daughter.

His favorite saying echoes in my head. “Use what God gave you, piccola. Beauty opens doors that strength can't break down.”

Too bad those doors led him straight to an early grave.

I step out of the bathroom to find Tony sprawled across one of the beds, phone in hand, shoulders tense with his bad attitude. "Working," he scoffs. "You mean lying. Again."

"And you’ve been drinking. Again." I snatch the poorly hidden flask from beside his leg. "Really?”

His face darkens. "Like you're one to talk about life choices."

The words sting, but I swallow the hurt. He's not wrong.

Here I am, about to con my way into another job, to spy on another mark. But this is the last job—given our situation, I didn’t really have a choice. Besides, the Fiori payout for this will be enough to get us out of Chicago, away from all of this.

Montana's waiting—big sky country where no one knows the D'Amato name or what it means.

I check my dance bag again: heels, makeup kit, a tiny recording device disguised as a compact mirror. Professional enough to look legit, not so professional it seems suspicious.

The Silk Rose is high-end, they'll be looking for class.

"I'm doing this for us," I tell Tony's turned back. "Two weeks, maybe three. Then we're gone. Clean slate."

He doesn't answer, but I see his shoulders drop slightly. Beneath the anger, he's just as tired as I am. Tired of running, of pretending, of carrying our parents' legacy like a curse.

I slip on my coat, hiding the audition outfit underneath. One last glance in the mirror—not at my face this time, but at my eyes. Making sure the mask is firmly in place. The pretty girl with the sad story, looking for a fresh start.

It's not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.

"Don't wait up," I tell Tony, though we both know he will. "And lay off the booze. I mean it."

As I close the door behind me, I mutter a quick prayer—not for the job to go well, but for it to be over quickly. For this to really be the last time.

God, or whoever's listening, hasn't answered any of my prayers yet. But maybe this time will be different.

Maybe this time, I'll finally set us free.

The Silk Rose isn't what I expected from a mob-owned strip club.

No neon signs, or sticky floors, or sleazy bouncers.

Instead, I'm greeted by a polished marble foyer and genuine crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than everything I own.

I press my dance bag closer to my side as I look around the entrance area, my heels clicking against the immaculate floor. Two security guards flank the entrance to the club—both wearing suits that cost more than my monthly rent. The taller one gives me a once-over—a professional assessment, not a leer. Interesting.

"Audition?" he asks.

I nod, letting a hint of my nerves show. Not too much—desperate isn't a good look anywhere, especially here.

"I'm on the list. Ava Milano." The fake surname rolls off my tongue easily. I've been lying about my name for so long, sometimes D'Amato feels like the fake one.

He checks his tablet, then nods toward the door. "Through the lobby, down the hall to your right. Someone will meet you."

Further into the building, the air smells like expensive cologne and something that is subtle and floral. There is no sign of the stale beer and sweat stench I remember from the club in Miami.

The lighting is soft and amber in tone, making everyone look airbrushed and expensive. My trained eye catches at least six security cameras in the lobby alone, their angles providing complete coverage without being obvious about it.

Damn good setup, my father's voice whispers in my head.Always case the escape routes first, piccola.

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