Page 30 of Murder & Mayhem

Chapter 12

The next night, I’m on stage, performing my usual routine at Belle Donne. As always, instead of losing myself in the music like I do at Strip Tease, my focus is on the room—specifically, who is in it. Dante didn’t show up last night, but after Cain and Oliver's reckless stunt, I’m quietly confident he will make an appearance someday this week. I’ve literally taken every available shift I could get to ensure I’m here when he is.

Stretching my arm above my head, I grab hold of the pole high above me and, lifting my legs, I twirl around it, sending the room into a spin. When I land back on my feet, I stumble in my high heels as my gaze collides with a set of very familiar—yet foreign—russet brown eyes before quickly correcting myself. For the rest of my performance, I’m just going through the motions, completely unaware of everyone else in the room. Dante’s impossible to look away from, to the point where I feel like I’m putting on a show solely for him. He seems just as entranced, watching my every move with his unwavering, steely gaze. It doesn’t burn my skin as Cain’s does, but it’s no less potent, and I suddenly get the feeling that having Dante’s attention isn’t necessarily a good thing.

I’m breathless, and an odd hum vibrates just beneath my skin as I climb down from the stage. Dante’s already there, waiting for me, like I simultaneously knew and feared he would be. His hand grasps my elbow in a firm grip, and without saying a word, he escorts me through the club to the small back office. He pushes me into the single chair opposite a messy desk as the door swings shut. My heart is in my throat as he towers above me, his narrowed gaze slowly raking over my body, taking in my brown wig and matching contacts, before casually assessing the rest of my body—all of which is on display thanks to the skimpy outfit I’m dressed in tonight. The bra I’m wearing is practically see-through, and several scraps of leather fabric connect it to a high-riding thong. Decorative silver chains hang across my chest and along the lining of the thong. It’s actually a pretty cool outfit, and it fits perfectly, the material clearly of a higher quality than what I’m used to. If I weren’t wearing it on stage for a bunch of dirty pervs, then I’d definitely consider wearing it for Oliver… Or Cain.

“Who are you?” Dante’s voice is a deep rasp, exactly how I remember it. That exhilarating mix of sexy and authoritative.

“I-I’m Red, sir,” I reply meekly. “I’m new.”

His eyes narrow to slits, and he leans in, planting a hand on either arm of my chair and boxing me in as he lowers his face so it’s level with mine. “No, you’re not. I saw you here several weeks ago.”

I press my back flat against the chair, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. Not all of it is an act. Being this close to him again, knowing exactly what he’s thinking, and that in the blink of an eye, he could shoot me dead with that pistol on his hip, has me feeling jittery and nervous.

“Y-yes, I-I remember.” I lick my lips nervously and stare up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “That was my first night, b-but that guydied. It freaked me out, and I didn’t come back.” When I speak again, I force tears to my eyes and add a hitch to my voice. “But I needed the money.” Giving a helpless shrug, I lower my gaze, curling in on myself. “So I came back.”

I can sense him processing what I’ve said and trying to determine if it’s the truth, but I don’t dare look up at him, wanting to maintain my weak, placid demeanor. As much as I hate pretending to be so helpless, it’s a ruse that usually works well on men. Cain is the only one that’s seen through the act.

“No one remembered you.” I can’t tell from the level tone of his voice if Dante is testing the depth of my story or if he doesn’t believe me.

“Like I said, it was my first night. I couldn’t have been here more than half an hour before I heard the screaming and s-sawhim.” I shudder. “He was just lying there on the ground. It washorrible. I-I didn’t even manage to find Franny b-before…”

This time, I glance up at him through my eyelashes as silence follows my explanation. He’s frowning down at me, and I can tell he doesn’t know whether to believe me or not.

After a long moment, he lifts his hand off the arm of the chair and, pressing his fingers firmly into the sides of my face, he lifts my head so he can analyze me. At first, I think he’s trying to determine the truth, but his question throws me for a loop. “How do I know you?”

I look at him with genuine confusion. Surely not? There’s no fucking way he can match the brown-eyed girl in front of him with the scrawny kid he threatened that night in the alley… right?

“I don’t know.”

He continues to stare into my eyes, and for a second, I’d almost swear he could see past my fake persona, past the contact lenses and wig. I hold my breath in expectation, just waiting for him to call bullshit. Yet, after what feels like a lifetime, he lets go and steps back. His brow is still furrowed, and I know this isn’t the end of whatever this is.

“Fine,” he relents. “You can get back to work.”

With a jerky nod of my head, I quickly get to my feet, and without looking back, I scurry from the room and back to work. For the rest of the night, Dante stands at the back of the room, cloaked in shadows as he watches me. I’m not sure what it means, but it’s exactly what I wanted, so I shake off the feeling that I’ve just gotten myself in way over my head and put on the show of a lifetime.

***

Two nights later, Dante is back again, watching me from the shadows. At first, he doesn’t approach or try to talk to me, but I still know he’s herefor me. It’s in the way his eyes follow my every movement, the fact that he ignores everyone but me. I’d have to be blind not to notice his attention.

“Sit,” he orders later that night when I pass his table.

I hesitate, glancing around me. “Eh, I should probably be working.”

“Sit.”

My ass hits the seat before I have time to process that I’ve moved, and the corner of his lip twitches slightly. Was that a smile? Or an attempt at one? I trace the seam of his lips with my eyes, but they are firmly pressed into a flat line. From there, I take my time studying him, noting the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow and the lack of laugh lines around his mouth. His nose is long and narrow, his cheekbones prominent. Combined with his short-cut raven black hair and bronzed skin, it sets a cold and intimidating picture, but it’s his eyes that emphasize his true character. Despite the ring of brown, which you’d think would soften them, it only enriches his otherwise obsidian pupils. I’ve never had this long to study him before, and the longer I stare, I start to discern the hints of russet running through his irises. The black, brown, and red all thread together, giving him the appearance of having already traveled through the nine circles of hell and come back to Earth to prove just how damn invincible he truly is.

For every second I spend analyzing him, he does the same to me. I have no idea what he sees, if it answers whatever questions he has about me or just raises new ones. And he doesn’t offer me the consideration of seeing into his inner thoughts.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. I don’t even know what I’d say to him. I know absolutely nothing about him, and I don’t want to risk giving away anything that might connect the me sitting in front of him right now with the me he threatened eight years ago. I’m used to pretending to be someone else, but the act usually only lasts a few hours, and my targets arealwaysinebriated. Not Dante, though. He hasn’t touched the glass of scotch that was placed in front of him when he first sat down, and unlike my victims who don’t give a shit beyond trying to get into my pants, Dante is paying attention to every micro move I make. He’s aware of every breath I take, every flutter of my eyelashes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept count and stored the information away for analysis at a later date.

“I talked to Franny,” he eventually remarks. “She claims she didn’t know of any new hires starting the night that client died.”

“Oh? That’s weird.” I keep my tone surprised but carefully unbothered. Franny is old, after all. It’s entirely possible it just slipped her mind.

“Yeah, it is.”

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