Page 29 of He Should Be Mine
“You’re with these assholes now?”
“I’m in the girls’ loo.”
“Don’t move,” I bark. “Don’t you move a fucking inch until I get there.”
I hang up and run, not bothering to hide it. As I round the corner of the house, I pass a woman in a slinky black dress lighting a cigarette.
“Give the Don my apologies!” I shout, not slowing.
It’s a terrible idea. You don’t run out on the Don’s dinner. But I don’t care.
I unlock my car, leap in, and pull up the app I never told Molly I installed, the one that tracks his phone. His dot flickers in Soho.
I gun the engine. Peel out onto the road. The tires screech, and I don’t give a damn. I love this car.
But Molly needs me.
The bar is crowded and awful.
It’s busy, loud, and trying too hard. Neon lights pulse across exposed brick walls. The drinks are in crystal tumblers, the chandeliers look like upside-down martinis, and the whole place smells like new money and over priced cologne.
Every surface gleams like it’s been polished by ambition and too many hands. The walls are a patchwork of black velvet amongst the exposed brick. The lighting’s moody and angular, throwing long shadows across square jaws and tight shirts. A DJ booth pulses in the corner like a heartbeat, pounding out something electronic and soulless.
It’s full of men in identical blazers and slim trousers. All clean lines and smug laughter, like they just closed a deal or ruined someone’s life for a bonus. They move in packs, full of private jokes and big laughs, like they own the place.
I can’t tell which pack dragged Molly here. They all look the same.
Young, cocky, moneyed. City traders or private equity boys. I can’t tell the difference, and I don’t care. One of them brought Molly here. Maybe all of them did.
I push through the crowd, ignoring the elbows, the lingering stares. I’ve never felt more out of place in my life,not even when I landed in America as an Italian teenager with hardly any English.
I pull out my phone and tap out a text.I’m here. Come out of the toilet.
I hit send and lift my gaze, straight into the eyes of a man across the room.
Antonio.
Shit.
He’s a low-level Ajello. I haven’t seen him since Naples. Pretty boy, loves being on the payroll a little too much. He grins when he sees me, like he’s just spotted the punchline to a joke no one else is in on.
“What areyoudoing in a gay bar?“ he calls, sauntering over like we’re friends.
“I could ask the same of you,” I snap, sharper than I mean to be.
His grin falters.
Fuck. My pulse spikes. My palms sweat. I should’ve kept it casual. Now he’s looking at me too closely.
I glance around. This doesn’t look like what I thought a gay bar would look like. There’s no glitter, no thumping Madonna remix. Just guys in loafers and Rolexes, sipping overpriced cocktails and eyeing each other like predators.
I am completely out of my depth.
Damn it. My idea of what a gay bar looks like is way off. I’m out of touch. And now I’ve been seen.
“Collecting rent,” Antonio says, patting the leather satchel at his side like it’s a badge of honor. “They’ve been behind.”
Perfect. The way out of this has just been handed to me. Perhaps miracles are real.
