Page 43 of Murder & Mayhem

There’s the sound of a body hitting the brick wall, followed by another grunt. “Good. Then get the fuck out of here.”

Hurried footsteps are heard as the guy runs away as fast as his feet will carry him. I stand frozen in place, unsure whether to alert Dante to my presence and hoping he will go back inside without ever knowing.

“I know you’re there.”

Oh, well, there goes that plan then.

“I, uh, thought you might try to kill him.”

There’s a shuffle of movement, and I sense—more than see—him approach. My skin prickles with awareness, sensing him standing right in front of me just before I feel his fingers on my cheek. His thumb finds my lower lip and rubs along it. “Is that what you wanted?”

My tongue flicks out, colliding with the pad of his thumb, and he promptly withdraws it, leaving me feeling bereft. “Just what I expected, from what I’ve heard about you.”

There’s a tense moment of silence before he sighs. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s an Antonelli man.”

“Aren’t you like the next Don or something?”

“It’s not that simple.”

I’ve never had the opportunity to be alone with Dante, and he’s hardly ever said anything to me before. Seeing my chance, I push further. “Why? ‘Cause of your father?”

There’s an edge of warning in Dante’s voice when he responds. “Why are you asking about my father?”

Dammit, looks like, yet again, I’m going to gain fuck all information about Giovanni or his organization.

I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “Just making conversation. Anyway, I appreciate you interfering, but I don’t need you to risk getting in trouble for me. I can deal with guys like him.”

“Has that happened before?”

“Here? A couple of times. As I said, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Mmm,” comes his non-committal response before I feel his warm palm on my lower back. “Come on.” I follow him blindly back down the alley until we reach the exit door. His suit jacket brushes along my arm, and his hand stays securely on my back, never wandering or trying to cop a feel. Dante is a complete enigma. He watches me obsessively. The only conclusion I can draw from it all is that he’s attracted to me, yet, we’re out here, alone in the dark, and I’m wearing practically nothing, and he acts like a total gentleman. I can’t understand it.

Pulling open the door, he applies pressure on my lower back until I step inside. Expecting him to follow me in, I turn to say something to him, but instead, I find myself alone as the door closes behind me. Yup, he’s definitely an enigma, and the longer I work here, I find myself wanting to know more about him. What a dangerous game I’m playing. A tightrope, really. One light push or gentle breeze, and I’ll plummet to my death.

***

Adrenaline from the night’s events is still coursing through my veins when I step into the Reject clubhouse. Another party is in full swing. They have been happening more and more recently, and I have a sneaking suspicion that’s Cain’s doing. Looking around, I don’t spot Oliver. Ignoring everyone, I head toward his bedroom, finding it empty.

Pulling out my phone, I send him a text.

Red:Where are you?

Immediately, bubbles pop up saying he’s responding.

Oliver:Be back soon.

Sighing, I head out to the bar and grab myself a beer. I stand there, surveying the room without really seeing it until I notice Cain up to his usual antics with some chick. My blood boils, and I bang my beer down on the bar top. Oliver said he needed a nudge, and the little show we put on the other night definitely got under his skin, but he’s continued to give me the silent treatment. The more I’ve watched him let any skank in his place do whatever they wanted to him, the more I’ve come to accept that my feelings are more than simple lust or attraction. I want to rip every single club slut away from him and scream that he’s mine, and I’ve never felt that possessive over anyone like that before.

Having had enough of this bullshit, I do the one thing that will get his attention—I think. I’m wearing booty shorts and a crop top that, when I raise my arms, shows the curve of my tits, along with my thigh-high, high-heeled boots, which are adequate enough for what I have in mind.

I wait until he feels my angry gaze on him and looks my way. Smirking, I give him a little finger wave that only confuses him, and he narrows his eyes on me suspiciously. Dismissing him, I stride toward the small stage in the corner of the room, where the stripper pole is. I catch his eye as the song switches to something slow and heady—perfect for my half-baked plan—and I tune out the rest of the room as I begin to sway my hips.

Cain’s brow, which was cocked in challenge, slowly lowers, furrowing as a frown tugs at the corners of his lips. It’s not until I lift my arms above my head, arching my back as I grab hold of the bar, that he jumps to his feet, shoving the girl out of his lap.

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