Page 11 of Desperately Delicate Viper

I’m hoping my height is working in my favor, helping me get lost in the crowd. Instead of heading for the main door, I make a beeline for the emergency exit with the disabled alarm. It’s half hidden by the shadow of the staircase and I’ve never seen anyone other than staff use it before, so I figure it’s my best chance to lose Luca. Then what? I’m not sure. Take my chances and get the hell out of here a few weeks early? I don’t think I can risk it. Spend the next nineteen days looking over my shoulder and sleeping with one eye open? I mean, I pretty much do that anyway, so it’s doable but not ideal.

I bite back a growl of frustration at my own bad luck for what has to be the dozenth time since last night. From now on, I’m going to adopt a policy of checking someone’s IDbeforeI rob them. Again, assuming I live that long.

I burst through the door, leaving the heat of the club behind in favor of the mild evening. The heavy door swings shut behind me and the stench of garbage hits me. I slap a hand over my mouth and nose to stifle the smell and look both ways down the alley to orient myself. To the left, I can see the faint glow of the neon sign that hangs at the front of the club, so I pivot to the right.

Before I can take a single step, the door flies open behind me and a pair of arms wrap around my middle. I shriek and flail, kicking my legs and windmilling my arms as my heart goes wild inside my chest.

“Goddamn, I love that fight in you,” Luca’s smooth voice whispers near my ear. The purr of adoration in his tone sends a wave of molten heat through me. It has to be a trap though. He’s trying to get me to let my guard down so he can kill me.

I fight harder, bucking in his grasp, screaming until my throat is sore. Of course, on this side of town, I don’t expect anyone to come running to my rescue. I don’t expect much of anything. But if I’m going to die, I refuse to do it quietly. I won’t make it easy for Luca. I’ll leave bruises. I’ll make sure there’s a permanent ringing in his ears that will remind him of me untilhisdying day.

His arms loosen around me and my feet hit the ground again. Before I can get my balance, let alone make a run for it, Luca’s hand wraps around my forearm, surprisingly gently, and he shoves me up against the building. The rough brick bites into my back through my thin t-shirt. I drag in another deep breath to renew my screaming, and his hand comes down over my mouth.

His hands are as smooth as they looked last night, pleasantly warm and without a single callus that I can feel. He never touched me last night. Not once. It’s an odd thought to have right before I die, but it’s there anyway. He wanted me to be rough with him, to hurt him just a little, but even now, pinning me up against the wall and covering my mouth, there’s no roughness in return.

A manic laugh tightens in my throat. He’s a fuckingMoretti. He doesn’t need to beat the shit out of me to kill me. No, brutish shit like that is for motorcycle gangs like the Sleepless Reapers. Mafiosos are far too classy to walk around with bruised and bloodied knuckles.

My chest heaves with every breath I drag in through my nose as Luca looms over me in the moonlight. A strand of his hair falls forward over his forehead and I have the insane urge to reach up and brush it back for him. Jesus, is this dissociation?Depersonalization? My brain going absolutely fucking batshit as a way to protect me from what’s about to happen?

A slow smile spreads over Luca’s lips.

“There,” he says now that I’ve stopped screaming. “No need to have Rabbit rushing over here on some misguided mission to protect you. He’s a good guy, I’d hate to have to kill him.”

My heart rate spikes again, and I return to flailing, gnashing my teeth in an attempt to get purchase against the palm of his hand and doing everything I can to get him off of me. Luca responds by pressing himself harder against me, flattening his body over mine and clamping his hand tighter to my face.

“Shhh, little viper. As much as I love your venom, I need you to calm down and listen to me,” he whispers, dragging his nose along the side of my face like we’re lovers. Goose bumps rise all over my skin and my cock chooses this moment to perk up and take notice. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I huff out a laugh against his hand. Not going to hurt me? Right, I’m sure that after being tied up, robbed, and humiliated, mafiosos routinely hunt down the perpetrators just to talk. Totally legit. I play along anyway, forcing my body to still and widening my eyes with faux innocence. I nod agreeably, and Luca loosens his hand.

“Good. I’m not going to hurt you,” Luca says again, and some very stupid part of me almost believes him.Almost.

With a deep breath through my nose and a silent prayer to a god I don’t believe in, I bring my knee up sharply between us and drive it hard into his balls. Luca gasps, and a look that could almost be mistaken for reverence flickers over his face before he stumbles back.

I don’t hesitate this time, but for some fucking reason I do mutter “Sorry” for the second time in twenty-four hours before bolting down the alley and leaving Luca Moretti behind.

Chapter 6

LUCA

Theovertsexualenergyin every beat of the sensual music blaring through the speakers, pouring off of the men wearing nothing but G-strings or ass-hugging shorts as they weave through the crowd to deliver drinks or offer lap dances is a world away from the vibe inside Wonderland.

Wild—the only all male, primarily queer focused strip club in Wildcliff, maybe even the state—has been Lorenzo Moretti’s pet project since the day he took over The Family. Maybe it’s the manufactured feeling of it all, like sex is an expectation here rather than a result of raw lust like it is at Wonderland. Or maybe it’s just me. Here at Wild, there’s no escaping who I am. Even the assessing looks from the dancers I pass have a touch of curiosity and fear, like they’re not sure if they want me to notice them or not.

My skin prickles and my frown deepens as the memory of Anders’s terrified expression last night flashes through my mind. There’s no way he’ll go back to Wonderland tonight, which means I’m going to need an actual plan to track him downnow. I doubt Mads or any of the other guys know much more about Anders than I do, and obviously they aren’t willing to spill even if they do. Not without a hell of a lot ofincentive, and something tells me beating information out of the bartenders will make it awkward as hell to order a drink the next time. It’s an option, but not the one I want to start with if I can help it.

A large, muscled man wearing nothing but a bowtie and black briefs steps into my path. He looks me up and down slowly and then curls his lips into a smile that’s clearly meant to be tempting. Maybe it would be if he were my type. I imagine a sassy twink in his place and give an involuntary shake of my head. No, not even then. Anders is under my skin and no one else will do.

“Can I help you with anything, Mr. Moretti?” he purrs suggestively, and a memory of meeting him before flickers in my head. Lucifer, that’s his name, or at least the one he goes by here. He was one of the dancers I met while I was playing bodyguard to Dante a few months ago.

I shake my head again. “No, thank you. I’m here for a meeting.”

He puts on an exaggerated pout. “Bummer. If you change your mind, come find me.” He winks and saunters away with a sway in his hips.

I manage to reach Uncle Sal’s favorite table without catching the attention of any other dancers. Tonight, he’s the well put together capo I’m used to seeing, dripping with a quiet air of ‘don’t fuck with me,’ from his stylish burgundy three-piece suit with a black undershirt and tie to the confident set of his shoulders as he sips a drink and watches the man on stage.Dante. He’s the most popular dancer here, and not just because he’s painfully beautiful, although that doesn’t hurt. No, the reason he keeps men panting for him is because he’s not content to simply shake his ass and shed his clothes to the sameoverplayed strip anthems. His routines are pure artistry, from his pole work to choreography that seamlessly lends itself to each item of clothing falling off one by one.

None of that is the reason Sal can’t look away though. No, that’s just pure, unbridled obsession with his husband.

Dante had to take a few months off after one of the Fitzpatricks attacked him, and I can tell by the look of ecstasy on his face as he swings around the pole that he’s glad to be back, if only part-time now while he works on setting up a dance studio of his own. He does a twirl and kick move as he shrugs his shirt off of his shoulders, and one of the men eagerly pressed up against the side of the stage reaches for him, his fingers grazing the dancer’s calf. A flash of fire heats Dante’s expression and he bares his teeth. He drops into a crouch and grabs the man’s hand, twisting his finger roughly.

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