Page 18 of Ruthless Saint

“I don’t think I’ve seen her before.” Nico Nicolosi rubs his double chin. “Tell me, Dante. Are the girls for entertainment, too, or just for looking? I wouldn’t mind a test drive.”

As quick as a blink of an eye. I go from boiling hot to ice cold.

7

ALESSA

Idon’t know how long I stand there, gripping the cold bars for balance and trying to calm myself down as the bitter taste of failure lingers on my tongue. But when the second song ends and still nothing happens, I turn back to the room filled with men playing poker and continue to dance. If you can call shaking like a leafdancing. Whatever just happened is not good. I can’t be a hundred per cent sure what Dante Santoro is doing at the Black Royale, but I’m smart enough to put two and two together. If itwashim watching me every night this past week, he’s either a regular or he’s involved in running the place. And since I’ve been told he owns this town, my money is on the latter.

I could smack myself over the head. I should have known I had walked into the den of a dragon, offering myself up as a meal, like a sacrificial lamb. The only thing left to do is to convince the dragon himself I’m good for business. Martina said the spend in the room has increased since I started dancing and my tips have beenreallygood. In the last week, I have earned more dancing in a bikini than I did in a month when I was serving tables at a diner in Texas.Things were finally looking up for me—Mel wanted me to move in with her and I had a job that paid well.

Then in comes the angry Santoro, his face as red as Terence, the huge angry bird. Now I’m back to the start, in the same place I was two weeks ago, minus the bus station sink bath and with more money in my pocket.

The songs are changing one after another as I sway, considering my options. Speaking with Mel will need to be my priority. She needs to find out the truth about who I am before we take any next steps, but first I need to come clean about the possibility I no longer have a job. Maybe she’d be able to help me find something? There must be someone in this mist-covered town who is not under Dante’s thumb.

With a sigh, I open my eyes, searching for Mel in the room in front of me, but I’m stunned to see it’s now completely empty. The dim lights highlight the newly deserted space. One of the chairs slowly spins as thick tendrils of the half-smoked cigar resting in the ashtray float up to the ceiling. The chips are gone, but everything else is the same, including the crystal glasses with alcohol the men were drinking. Everything is there, minus the living, breathing humans.

The realisation that I’m trapped in a metal cage, hanging off the ceiling, with no means of escaping, sparks fear in my brain. The same brain that, with its eidetic memory, is most likely a top-notch zombie nosh. The scene in front of me is starting to make me feel like Jim in28 Days Later. Thing is, I’ve always had an overactive imagination. Ever since I was a kid, when things were dire, I’d make up stories in my head and pretend they were true, and that I was the main character. So it’s only natural that when the cage groans and starts moving towards its dock, I let out a squeal, then drop to the floor. Not that a floor drop would save me in a zombie attack, but instincts die hard.

“You okay?” The younger version of Dante I first laid eyes on last week inLa Famigliasmiles at me as he secures the cage to the dock, then opens the gate so I can step out.

I get up, dusting myself off like nothing’s out of the ordinary, and let him take my hand as he helps me back into the corridor. My foot half over the threshold, I stop, my eyes on him, scanning his white button-up shirt with sleeves rolled up to his forearms for any marks. A thin black belt holds his suit pants on his narrow hips, as my eyes cast down to check his legs, trying not to pay attention that he looks positively edible. He’d be prime zombie real estate ifIwere a zombie. “Do you have any bites or scratch marks?”

His eyes widen, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, then clears his throat. “Uh… What?”

I sigh. Why must everyone be so difficult? “Did anyone bite or scratch you?”

“I mean, I’ve got a few on my back.” He shrugs, his lips lifting into a cocky half smile as he pulls me over the threshold and straight into his arms. “But I don’t mind those. I like it when women get physical.”

With my face plastered against his hard chest, the smell of expensive cologne and whiskey overwhelming my senses, I realise he has completely missed the mark.

“Good for you.” I pat his pecs and push myself away, unwrapping his arm from around me. No matter how handsome and flirty he is, I need to keep my guard up, since he’s more than likely related to Dante. You never know when the Terence gene wins out, even if that gene could come in handy when fighting brain-hungry monsters.

With my chin held high, I study his face. “The place looked deserted. I was just checking in case of a zombie apocalypse.”

He leans past my shoulder, pointedly looking down at the ground floor. I follow his gaze and am greeted by aroom filled with suited men playing cards. I didn’t even think to look below when I started panicking about my impending doom in my cage. This is exactly why I should avoid stress.AndDante Santoro. Neither one is good for my sanity.

“No zombies here.”

“Yup. Now that I’ve checked, I came to the same conclusion. Thank you for confirming,” I reply, keeping my face straight because it is physically impossible for me to dig myself out of this hole I made, so I may as well lay in it and enjoy some stargazing. I’ve read Vega is particularly bright at this time of the year.

“I’m glad I could help.”

“So, what’s going on? My shift doesn’t end for another two hours.”

“There’s been a slight change of plans.”

I narrow my eyes at him again. “Where’s Martina?”

“In her office. Now let’s go.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t know who you are. Haven’t you ever heard of stranger danger?”

“Isn’t that a warning for kids? I’m Angelo.” He chuckles.

“I’m a kid at heart,Angelo,” I explain.

“Aren’t we all?”

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