Page 50 of O'Mega's Revenge
Most of the shit I bought her was in the form of fancy underwear. But as the owner of a strip club, I knew a lot of women. Some of them had great taste.
She smiled and leaned in. Her breath caressed my ear as she whispered, “Make sure it’s long enough I can hide a knife, okay?”
I nodded, inhaling her skin. My lips brushed her cheek as she straightened. That feral look was back in her eyes. I wanted to savor that wildness, drink it down and drown in it as we fucked each other blind. But there was a presentation to orchestrate. A delicate dance that moved our pieces onto the game board in the presence of folks who constantly underestimated us.
We were just bikers. Thugs. The hired help. But we were invited to the ball, and it was our turn to prove there was a reason we were feared. This woman, my woman, she was aware of the danger we walked into.
I checked on the excited plans being made around us. Trot watched with the practiced patience of a leader. Felonious sharpened her knife as she talked. Revenge glittered in her eyes as she swept the blade across the stone.
Jackson appeared relaxed, watching me. His eyebrow went up, a tiny fraction. His eyes slid to Nonno, as if to tell me to look.
I did.
He was an island in the commotion. A king lost to the workings around him. A wild card who didn’t like me, hadn’t supported my rise to power when he had every reason to shore up his defenses. I couldn’t underestimate him. He’d risen to the second in command position by will and savvy machinations. There were others out there, just like him, biding time, planning alliances, working brother against brother, so they would need a strong man to tell them what to do.
Maybe that’s why he hated me. He couldn’t control me. Or my girl.
Chapter Eleven
The Philadelphia skyline at night hid a lot of its flaws. The private event reserved the top floors of One Liberty Place. Access to the observatory was restricted, but the view was still spectacular.
Of course, that wasn’t the view I was interested in.
Tits wore a sleek metallic dress. The fabric draped from her shoulders, concealing her front from collarbone to ankle, but wide open to expose her back. The smooth expanse was only broken by a single chain that snaked down from the Y above her shoulder blades and deposited a tiny diamond drop that drew the eye down to her peek-a-boo ass-crack.
The dress cinched closed just a finger width or maybe two below the indent to preserve the guests’ modesty.
The plunge dared me to place a possessive hand there. Show everyone that this woman was mine. Prove to them I could touch somewhere so intimate on her, and everyone else could only look.
But she was on Nonno’s arm. For a man more comfortable in leather and denim, he played the part of mobster well. His suit was new, coming from a shop Sprout owned. All that money was doing its work for us. Sprout looked the part, too. His suit was tailored, though. No tell-tale sagging or bulges. His wife insisted on coming, pulling strings with her rich uncle, who had been invited. They remained in their group, not hinting to anyone they were affiliated with Nonno’s entourage.
Jackson and I played the part of security since we both owned suits. This was something that Sprout’s wife insisted on for our public events. And since we had the scratch, it was easy to buy the best. We wore matching dark jackets in Italian silk, simple dark ties with matching dark-colored shirts, and relegated to following two steps behind. The position gave me ample opportunity to watch Tits’ ass sway back and forth.
“You pay more attention to her ass than the room,” Jackson grumbled.
He had a point. “Like you haven’t tried to sneak a peek?”
“Sneak?” He snorted. “Hate to break it to you, but I got a full lunar landscape view about five minutes ago.”
“When was that?”
He ignored me. “Check it out. Number three and the head of the 623.”
Sure as shit, the Teamsters and the mob were back together. Or maybe just playing nice for the night. There were more celebrities than them in attendance. I noted at least one rock star. She was an up-and-coming singer who’d hit the charts in the last year. But we weren’t here to gawk. I scanned the crowd, trying harder to ignore my girl. “No sign of the asshole.”
“Look for escorts. I think I saw that brunette I fucked at Kush’s retirement party.”
“Really? Where?”
“Toward the food.” Jackson curled his index finger and wiped it over the tip of his nose, using the leading edge to indicate the direction. I followed the invisible line and spotted a dark-haired chick in a slinky black and silver number. She laughed and turned away. Her face was now in profile.
“Confirmed. How was she?”
Jackson shrugged. “Good, not great. Speaking of…” He indicated Missile, making a splash and drawing stares in the bright blue Dior gown Tits was supposed to wear. On her arm was Fell, dressed in a skimpy white halter dress that crisscrossed above her tits, leaving a nice keyhole to admire her cleavage through. They touched in PDAs not suitable for the event, but, by doing so, were sufficiently ignored by most of the guests. No one asked them to leave, so the act worked.
They kissed each other like they were inhaling their very last breath.
“I’m hungry for a sandwich,” Jackson mused.
