Cool droplets drip from my hair thanks to the fall thunderstorm, and a twenty-minute wait before I reach the bouncer stationed at the club’s entrance.
Six feet tall, with an eagle tattoo on his neck, he looks me over slowly. A self-indulgent smirk twists his lips as eyes rove my legs longer than appropriate.
“Enjoy your night,” he says, pushing the door open.
I’m two years shy of legally entering a club, but my surname poses a much bigger issue than my underage status.
Harston.
The Harston.
Daughter of Frank Harston, the man Chicago fears.
With a heavy sigh, I step inside the club, surprised that the bouncer didn’t check my ID. He should have. His mistake will probably cost him the job, if not his head.
A hostess stamps my wrist with a Greek letter, Delta, the club’s name, then points at a glass tunnel bathed in a red LED light hue. It leads to a room playing pop music, where sweet smoke hangs thickly above the crowd, the fragrant scent a mixture of summer berries and vanilla. Colorful strobe lights cut the air, bouncing off the walls, matching the rhythm of “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé, while hundreds of sweaty bodies dance to the beat.
POP room is nice enough but not quite what I’m after. I need a different kind of music tonight, louder and with more bass to drown out my tormented, screaming mind. Clutching my bag, I push through the crowd, searching for the next room. A red, backless dress and neon-yellow heels work wonders for my self-esteem. I’m not shy but not overly confident either. At least not usually.
Tonight, anger bubbles inside me, rushing to the surface like diet Coke when you throw a Mentos in the bottle. I cross the room as if I own the goddamn place. As if I’m ready to set it alight and watch it burn.
I might be…
I have two valid reasons why jittery fear courses through my veins and why anger boils my blood, masking my unease. My face must reflect my emotions because people step out of my way, awe tinged with respect shining in their eyes, but one guy blocks my path, rooted to the floor. He’s either blind or ignores me as I sail across the dance floor in a whirlwind of fiery annoyance, red fabric, and wet hair. I shove him aside, harder than intended… he trips over his legs, landing on his butt.
He glances at me with wide eyes before his head snaps to the beer in his hand. He holds the glass up like a trophy, grinning at his friends. “Yay!”
I keep walking. “Single Ladies” changes to “Umbrella” when I disappear behind another door. Heavy bass vibrations give the impression of the ground shaking beneath my feet. Fewer sweaty bodies crowd the dance floor here, but that’s not surprising. Ten o’clock hasn’t struck yet. People are only starting to arrive.
In need of a drink, I scan the room, searching for the least crowded bar. The one in the VIP section upstairs looks deserted compared to the two downstairs. Here, at least twenty people wait in line, impatiently stepping from one foot to another.
I make a pit stop in the ladies’ room to pat myself dry with hand towels, wiping away the two tiny mascara rivers off my cheeks. I do my best to tame my dark brown, dripping locks, wringing a bit of water out over the sink. Satisfied with the reflection staring back at me in the mirror, I leave for the bar. My two sidekicks tonight, anger and disappointment, follow suit.
Empty stools at the far end of the long wooden counter catch my eye as I pass a short line of men waiting to be served. I sit down by the wall, away from other people. Not that anyone’s looking to join my pity party. They grab their orders, rushing back downstairs, eager to spend the night dancing. I might be the only loser who arrived here alone.
I rest my elbows against the sticky counter and hide my face in my hands, willing my annoyance to ease up already.
When I closed the door behind Chase two hours ago, I ignored the compulsive need to lock myself in my bedroom with ice cream. It doesn’t help the heartbreak. Although, heartbreak might not be the correct word. I’m not mad at Chase, per se. I’m mad at my father. It’s his fault, his idea, and his sick execution. Chase was a tool in his hands, just like my two previous boyfriends.
You’d think I’d learn the lesson by now, that I’d expect the same old bullshit my daddy put me through twice before, but I believed him when he promised he wouldn’t do that again. Yeah, right!
Instead of moping or confronting my father, I slipped into the sexiest dress I found in my closet, snuck out of the house through the window in my bedroom, hailed a cab, and came straight to Delta.
Chase is the last guy who fooled me.
Again, not his fault, per se. Who wouldn’t fake-date me for fifty grand? Correction: who’d have the guts to say no to my father? No one. Frankie Harston gets what he wants.
Always.
And so, for the third time in a row, my new relationship ended after exactly three months with the same line the previous two boyfriends used: Layla honey, I’m gay, sorry.
He can shove his sorry where the sun doesn’t shine.
Three men, three disappointments. No one but daddy to blame or thank for this mess. I wouldn’t mind it half as much if they weren’t the only three men I’ve ever dated, but they are. Why did Chase choose tonight to break the news? Couldn’t he have waited just two days? He told me his truth the day before my birthday.
Some gift.
“Hey, are you alright there?” The bartender eyes me with curious, albeit slightly apprehensive eyes.
I bet he expects me to burst out crying. Or maybe he’s afraid I’ll whine about the reason for my solo club outing… I’m not that cruel. No one in their right mind would willingly listen to the messed-up thoughts polluting my head. “Yes, I’m okay. Can I have a mojito, please?”
“Put it on my tab,” someone behind me says.
Thanks, but no, thanks.
I roll my eyes, which makes the bartender smirk under his nose. Delta is not the place where I should politely subject myself to some idiots’ wooing. I’m alone here. No one will come with a rescue mission if I get in trouble. No one from my side is welcome inside the hottest club in Chicago.
“Thanks, but I pay for my own drinks.” Irritation, sticky like honey, covers the words shooting out of my mouth.
The man takes the stool beside mine, the corners of his lips curled into a coy smile.
He’s not a drunk idiot.
No, he’s sober.
He’s lethal.
A black leather jacket hugs his broad shoulders, hiding a thin, grey t-shirt. It works well with his short, dark hair and sharp features. My cheeks heat when emerald-green eyes meet mine briefly before traveling south to take me in.
I glance at the ceiling, swearing quietly.
Of course. The one heterosexual man who ever chatted me up out of his unforced will has to be the enemy.
Not mine, my father’s, but it doesn’t change much.
“I wasn’t asking for permission,” he says, his voice rough like that of an old rocker.
I click my tongue, making a show of rolling my eyes again in case he missed it the first time. The cold, harsh truth is that inside I’m shaking like a cornered baby deer. I didn’t expect him to approach me. I didn’t expect to see him tonight, yet here he is in all his merciless, unforgiving, arrogant glory. The bartender sets a tall glass before me. I hold out a twenty, adamant about paying, but before he accepts the cash, he glances at the man on my left, awaiting his call. He nods once, an enigmatic response worthy of a powerful man like him.
“Will you introduce yourself, or would you rather stare at me all night?” I ask, closing my lips on a twirly straw. The alcohol should ease the tremble of my hands and the erratic rhythm of my pounding heart.
There’s no need for an introduction. I know exactly who he is. I’m actually having a hard time believing he casually took a seat beside me. All things considered, he should know who I am too. He should also throw me out of his club, but no. By the look of him, he has no idea that here sits beside him, the daughter of the man who’d sacrifice almost everything to see him dead.
Careful not to get caught, I check him out, flinching at the sight of a gun strapped in the holster by his belt. That might end up pressed against my temple a few minutes from now, once he learns my name. I move my gaze back to his eyes and then, like a cheap detective, to his left hand. The signet ring adorning his finger betrays his surname better than a birth certificate could.
He turns my way, eyebrow raised, eyes sliding up my body to meet mine. “Dante.”
“Dante Carrow,” I scoff, straightening my spine.
“Same one.”
My impudent behavior has a different effect than anticipated. Matching his arrogance won’t work. I’m not nearly good enough at this game. Instead of the desired reaction—a muscle ticking on his square jaw, betraying annoyance, he presses his lips together, fighting a smile. He’s enjoying this.
Nobody within a ten-mile radius would dare snap at him as I just did, yet he finds me amusing. If not for the volcano of emotions erupting inside my head every few seconds, maybe I wouldn’t hiss either. Then again, if not for the volcano, I wouldn’t have entered Delta.
Dante is the mafia boss ruling the South of Chicago. My father commands the North. Two biggest enemies in the history of this city scrambling for power.
Dante can easily use me as bait. He can threaten my father’s business by holding me hostage. He can throw me in the trunk and take me somewhere no one will ever find my body, no matter how long they’d look. Daddy may keep me away from his work, but I’m not daft. I hear things not meant for my ears. I have some confidential information Dante could force out of me. I’m sure he’s very persuasive when the mood takes him.
Thankfully, I’m still raging after Chase’s confession, or rather my father’s blatant broken promise, so I don’t care.
I glance back into his hypnotizing eyes. “So, Dante, I suggest you find another girl who’ll entertain you. If it’s not too much trouble, don’t summon your pawns. I’ll let myself out once I finish.” I point at my drink when two lines crease his forehead. “I’m Layla. Layla Harston.”
“Layla Harston,” he echoes. My name on his lips sounds like a sexual innuendo. “My, my. What are you doing here?”
I raise my glass. “I’m drinking.”
“So, I see. I’m asking why here. You know it’s my club.”
Everyone knows, hence my choice. “Thank you for not doubting my intelligence,” I clip. “Delta’s the only place in the city where my daddy’s vultures won’t look when they realize I’m gone. Even if they figure out with their limited brain cells that this is where I am, they’re not allowed inside.”
Dante waves his hand at the bartender. Half a minute later, he hands him a drink and an ashtray.
Looks like he’s not going anywhere.
He lights a cigarette ignoring the No Smoking sign above the bar. “You’re hiding on my territory. Why?”
“You’re not the brightest bulb in the box, are you?” I flip my hair over one shoulder, pinching the straw between my fingers. “I told you. No one will find me here.”
He smirks, all brazen arrogance. He takes a long, delicious drag, disappearing briefly in a cloud of smoke. “Are you always this pissy?”
“Always.”
Cruelty is now a part of my character after living under the same roof with Frankie Harston. I developed a sharp tongue and sure take after my daddy where sarcasm is concerned.
“Why are you hiding? What did you do?”
Oh, I’m not hiding.
If I wanted to hide, I’d crawl under my bed the way I did when I was a child. Why the hell is he still here? He should’ve thrown me out the door the moment he learned my name. So important, yet so careless.
“Bad day.” I shrug, pushing the empty glass aside.
“I assume you’re also always this vague?”
“No, I just don’t feel like entertaining you with a chat.”
Someone taps my shoulder, forcing me to spin in my seat. A reasonably handsome guy smiles wide, swaying to the beat reverberating throughout the club. “Let’s dance.”
“I didn’t come here to dance.”
“Come on, please. Consider it compensation for how you manhandled me in the other room.”
I look at him again—blond hair, tall, no neck. “Are you the guy who tripped?”
He nods, taking a step closer. “Please. Just one dance. I’ve been looking for you all over the place.”
I’m not in the mood to dance, but I’m also not in the mood for Dante’s company. I’ve not mentally prepared for such a turn of events. Who knew he actually spends time in his club? Not me.
And so, the lesser of two evils wins.
I stand, adjusting my dress. “I hope you can dance…”
“Jake,” he offers, taking my hand.
“Layla.”
He flashes me another broad smile before he leads me downstairs. We squeeze our way through the dancing crowd, and Jake whirls me around, pressing my back against his chest, his arms around my middle. He’s not just a good dancer but a well-behaved one too. He’s not seizing the opportunity, not trying to grope me.
We dance through one song, and, a man of his word, Jake’s ready to take me back upstairs when “Cool Girl” by Tove Lo blasts from the speakers. I hold him in place, resuming our dance. Two more songs pass before I approach the upstairs bar again. I promised Dante I’d leave, and leave I will.
Rule number one when dealing with mafia men: Don’t test their patience. They don’t have any.
“Still here?” I ask, finding him right where I left him.
“If I remember right, you were the one leaving.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” I fling my bag over my shoulder.
“Sit down.” He clinks his glass to a fresh mojito waiting on the counter. “You wanted to have a few drinks somewhere Frankie’s vultures won’t find you. You’re safe here.”
Arguably.
“I wanted to have a few drinks alone.” I take a seat, silencing the voice of reason urging me to lose my heels and sprint out of here. Instead, I give in to the plea of a different voice, one that’ll probably get me killed. “Spiked my drink, did you?” I raise the glass to my lips, my muscles relaxing with every sip.
“Obviously. You’re very snappy, Layla… nothing a good drug cocktail won’t fix.” His face is impassive, but his voice lacks credibility.
“You should’ve popped a few sleeping pills in here too. I only shut up when I’m asleep.”
He smirks again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“What will you do when I’m all drugged up? Will you lock me in a golden cage? Send for ransom?” I set the glass aside, tilting my head toward him. “Sorry to clip your wings, but my father won’t pay a dime.”
Dante leans closer, one elbow on the bar, eyes boring into mine. “Will you tell me why you’re here?”
The smell of his heady, spicy cologne fans my face, captivating my senses better than any drug he undoubtedly has in his arsenal. Hiding the reason why I’m here makes little sense. Maybe the truth will scare him off? Although, I’m not sure I want him to leave.
“My boyfriend dumped me.”
“His loss, not yours, but I’m intrigued,” he says in a low voice I can barely hear over the growing background noise. “Why did he dump you?”
“I’ll make you a deal. You ask all your questions, I answer, and then you move on. Okay?” Getting rid of him is the wiser choice than entertaining us both.
“Are you in a hurry, or are you afraid of me?”
“He’s gay,” I counter.
I should be afraid. I also should leave, but fear is absent.
Dante’s intriguing. He emanates ruthless confidence, but when his eyes meet mine, I notice more in those alluring emeralds of his… kind of softness.
“Your boyfriend is gay? How have you not realized? You’re not very clever, are you?”
“Ex-boyfriend. If you want to laugh more, I’ll tell you this, he’s the third one. Well, the second gay, but boyfriend number one preferred boys too. The difference is that he wanted to be a she. It’s no longer Sam; it’s Samantha. I’m secretly jealous of her boobs.”
Dante’s gaze roves my chest. “Yours aren’t bad.”
“Could be better.”
A mixture of great music, alcohol, and surprisingly enjoyable company helps me relax. Once I get home, I’ll have to deal with being used in my father’s puppet show again. Deal with my life being controlled at every turn. I’m two hours shy of turning nineteen, but no one has ever kissed me because Frank keeps all heterosexual men away from me.
My bag vibrates on the counter, the incoming call from Frank’s right-hand man, Adam.
Ah, so it begins…
I slide my thumb across the screen. “I report, I’ve not been kidnapped by aliens or the opposition.”
A nervous laugh is his first answer. “Where are you?”
Lying is an option, though I’m not a good liar. I’m sure there’s a reason why Adam’s calling—my father’s orders. I left an hour ago without a word, and that’s enough for Frank to raise the alarm. He keeps tabs on me, controlling my life to ensure I won’t cause him trouble. He plans my every move and watches me chase the carrot dangling from the stick.
I glance at Dante, my nerve endings firing with sudden bravery. “I’m in Delta.”
Adam inhales sharply, holding his breath as if I just admitted I murdered Elmo. “Voluntarily?”
“Didn’t I mention I wasn’t kidnapped?” My mouth turns dry when Dante takes a drag of his cigarette, holding my gaze. His cheeks puff out before he parts his full lips, letting out a thick, gray cloud.
How can smoking look so sexy?
“Frankie will go nuts.”
That he might. I’m going rogue here. Acting on impulse. “Then don’t tell him. You’re crafty. I’m sure you’ll come up with an interesting lie. Bye-bye for now. I’m busy.” I cut the call, rising from my seat.
I need a break from Dante, his green eyes, and his effect on me. I also need to stop looking at him like I usually look at a chocolate cake. The club is busier now. The line to the upstairs bar starts halfway down the stairs. Thankfully, the restroom is quieter. I wash my hands, squeeze my neck, and count down from ten.
Time to go home before Dante permanently damages my not-so-perfect mind.
“Running away, are you?” He asks when I return.
I finish my drink and grab my bag. “I’m not running. I’m leaving. There’s a difference.”
“Is Daddy’s baby girl afraid she’ll be punished?” He crosses his arms, leaning back with another smug smile.
Every time his eyes travel down my body in a heated once-over, I feel exposed as if he sees right through me… as if he knows my deepest secrets.
“Of course. Can’t you see my legs shaking?” I fling the crossbody bag over my head. “Your company’s not that great, you know?”
“It’s better than you’re willing to admit.”
“Let’s agree to disagree.”
He cuffs my wrist, yanking me closer until I stand between his legs, my thighs touching his knees. “Sit.”
I cock an eyebrow, staring him down. “Oh, you think I take orders, baby? Sorry, I don’t.”
His grip tightens, and he pulls me closer again, gentle but demanding when his free hand caresses the soft spot at the back of my knee. “It’s been an hour since we met, but this is the third time I’ve wanted to shut your mouth with mine, Star.” His gaze stops at my lips, eyes dark like green velvet. “Can you sit down?” Again, he tugs on my hand, his warm breath fanning my face. “We’re not done, baby.”
Maintaining an impassive expression while my body feels like I’ve been dipped in a Jacuzzi is not easy. No way I’ll let my face tell him how much I enjoy his touch.
And his words.
“Fine, but keep your mouth away from me.” I wiggle out of his grip, taking a seat. An unpleasant chill slides along my spine once I’m no longer in his personal space. “If I’m staying, you must make my birthday wish come true.”
“Is it your birthday today?”
I take his hand, dizzy when the same electric pulse washes over me at the touch of his warm skin. I roll the sleeve of his biker jacket, revealing a silver watch. “In ninety-three minutes, I’ll be nineteen. One wish, Dante. Don’t worry, it’s not complicated. The biggest one is reserved for someone else.”
“Do I look like a genie, Star?”
“No, you don’t.” I tilt my head, ignoring the unusual pet name. I ignore it even though an anemic butterfly flaps one wing in my belly. “You look a bit like a fairy, though.”
A one-sided smile curls his lips. “Fine. I might regret this but do go on. What is it that you wish for?”
“Get me drunk. It’s been a long day, and the morning isn’t looking up. A small hangover will hopefully drown out the earful I’ll get from Frank.”
“Done. I’ll get you drunk. Now, raise the bar.” His hands brush against my knee. It looks like an accident but it isn’t. “There must be something else I can do.”
“You’re not fit to fulfill my other wishes.”
He’s not appeased but leaves it without comment. “I’ll make sure your douche of an ex-boyfriend is the last thing on your mind tonight.”
