Page 3 of Forgotten Deeds

The hostess seats a man solo at another table, and she motions discretely for me to come over. Perfect. I make my way across the floor, but before I can do my introductory spiel, that menacing presence is back.

My body is on high alert as I slowly turn around to find the god of the underworld with receipt in hand. “Lead the way,” he says with a naughty twinkle in his eyes.

I snatch the receipt and nearly faint when I spot the amount—he really paid ten thousand dollars. “I don’t do extras,” I warn him.

“Good girl,” he leans in, whispering in my ear.

My skin prickles as I take a step back. “As long as that’s clear, follow me,” I say, leading us to the back. My flight or fight is telling me to run; the ten grand is telling me to keep going.

The ten grand wins.

We check in with the VIP hostess, who’s all smiles until she spots my customer; now she looks like she might pass out. Same, girl. Same.

“I’ll be receiving a delivery,” he notifies the hostess, and she nods and smiles tightly before escorting us down the hall.

“You do drugs in here, you get kicked out,” I warn him as we enter our private room. That was true at Joe’s club, but I doubt Leo gives a fuck what goes on as long as he’s making money. But I’m standing firm on this one regardless.

“Fair enough,” he says, taking a seat on the faux-leather couch.

“Pearl, just a second,” the hostess says, grabbing my arm and dragging me into the hallway. “Be careful with him,” she warns.

“Who is he?”

“Diávolos. Crazy motherfucker. Hooked up with the mob. Word is he tortures poor souls for fun. Cuts out their organs and sells them on the black market, but he keeps the hearts and eats them.” She pauses dramatically before whispering, “Raw.”

I don’t know if the hostess is trying to help me, or if she’s trying to scare me off another dancer’s turf. “Thanks, I’ll be careful,” I tell her with a nod.

Stepping back inside the VIP room, I close the door behind me, but linger close by—just in case I need to make a run for it.

“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the man comments.

Not a ghost, but maybe something worse. “Do you torture people for fun?”

“For fun?” He considers my question. “No.”

“Then for work?” I ask, my hands trembling as I bring them behind me—grasping the door handle.

“Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life,” he tells me with a wink.

Before I can dart out of the room, he says, “I’m joking. Come sit with me.” He pats the spot beside him.

I could run, but he’d be entitled to a refund—a ten grand refund—so I put one foot in front of the other, feeling like a lamb offering itself up to slaughter.

Taking a seat next to him, I dare to sneak peek. He’s dangerously handsome, but that just could be because he’s dangerous. Curly black hair cut short. Dark brown eyes. Prominent nose that looks like it’s been broken a few times. Square chin covered in a short, well-manicured beard. Pretty olive skin. That scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He’s dressed in jeans and trainers, with a simple black T-shirt hugging his muscular physique; not that his casual attire makes him any less formidable.

“What’s your name?” The man takes his time admiring my scantily-clad body, and I try not to squirm.

“Pearl,” I somehow manage.

“Real name, not stage name,” he challenges, his dark eyes pinning me to the couch.

“Brooklyn.” I give my practiced response.

His lips quirk. “Real name, not first fake ‘real’ name.’”

“Tiffany.”

He chuckles. “Now you’re not even trying.”

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