There are times in life when one becomes untethered. The things we take for granted are ripped away from us. Conditions we assume to be permanent reveal themselves to be as temporary as a beautiful sunset. The familiar disappears, and we are forced to confront the unknown.
When I open my eyes, I don’t recognize anything around me. The walls are yellow, while I’m used to them being blue. The spring bed is lumpy and makes squeaking sounds every time I move. The bathroom smells like lemons.
“You’re in Spain,” I mumble quietly. “You got away.”
It doesn’t feel real. Maybe if I keep talking to myself, it will eventually click.
It’s dark outside. The cheap clock hanging on the wall says it’s twelve am, which means I need to start getting ready for Revolvr.
I shower and pull on the microscopic dress I bought after saying goodbye to Vilde and Astrid. They recommended I wear something showy to fit in. It has a deep V cut at the front, an even deeper one at the back, and the hem just barely covers my butt.
I’ve never worn anything like this in my entire life. I’m so uncomfortable in it, I can’t help but constantly tug it in place as I wait for a cab. When the taxi arrives, I maneuver my body inside the car and somehow manage to avoid a nip slip.
The girls told me earlier that I should just ask one of the servers if a manager is around when I arrive. It’s not much of a plan, especially since I don’t know what I’m going to say even if I’m able to find someone to talk to. All I know is that I’m ready to beg for a job if I have to.
“We’re here,” the driver announces as we pull to a stop.
When he tells me the amount, I groan inwardly. I didn’t trust myself to figure out the bus schedule in the middle of the night, but it looks like I’ll have to on my way home.
I pay the driver and get out to look around. The beach is nearby. I can’t see it, but I smell the salt in the air. There are a few apartment buildings, nothing too attention grabbing, except for a giant neon sign on top of a boxy structure that says Revolvr.
When I step inside the property, my jaw drops.
It’s way bigger than what it looked like from the outside. I’m lost immediately. I pass by at least three bars before entering the main area where a DJ is playing bass-heavy dance music. It’s a cavernous space with balconies, multiple levels, and a massive dance floor. You could fit thousands of people here, easy.
My head spins, and not just because of the strobe lights or the fast-paced Japanese cartoon playing on a big screen. They’ll never find me here, I realize with relief. If I get a job at the club, no one will notice me working in these masses of gyrating bodies and blinking lights.
I approach a small bar tucked against one of the walls and try to catch the attention of a server. “Excuse me!”
He doesn’t hear me. The music coming through the sound system is too loud.
I try again, and it feels uncomfortable. I’ve always been told to be soft spoken and demure, but I can’t afford to be like that anymore. Literally. If I want to survive on my own, I need to step way outside my comfort zone.
The server finally notices me. “Hola,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “Dime.”
“I’m sorry, I’m looking for a manager. Is there one here tonight?”
His brows scrunch together. “A manager? I don’t know, I just started my shift. Look, we’re really busy.”
I clear my throat. “Who’s in charge tonight?”
The server purses his lips. “The boss is here, so he’s in charge. You see that small balcony way up there?”
I turn to look in the direction he’s pointing, and that’s when I see him.
A lone man stands on a balcony high above the dance floor, flickering lights dancing over his form.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight.
The server’s voice comes in muffled, as if someone placed a glass container over my head. “That’s Señor De Rossi.”
Even from this far away, he’s intimidating. Tall, straight-backed, and impeccably dressed. He’s wearing a meticulous three-piece suit that molds to his body as if it’s made of putty. I’ve spent my life around men dressed in suits like that, and I know what they mean.
Power. Prestige. Brutality.
My eyes widen as his dark gaze slides my way.
Stop. You’re projecting.
My paranoid mind is still seeing danger everywhere. He’s a club owner, not a made man.
But he’s looking at me as if I exist solely for his consumption. As if I’d been bought and paid for by him, and today’s the day he takes possession.
I shake the feeling off.
I’m not here to be claimed.
“He’s looking at you,” the server says, sounding a little perplexed, as if this isn’t a normal occurrence. “Do you know each other?”
“No,” I say. “But I need to talk to him.”
There’s wry laughter behind me. “Good luck.”
I turn back to ask the server what he means by that, but he’s already gone, pouring someone else a drink. I could use some liquid courage, but I’m not in a position to afford a fifteen-euro cocktail.
When I look back at the balcony, De Rossi’s attention is somewhere else. There’s a bearded man with dark slicked-back hair standing beside him.
The newcomer has an impressive physique—brawny and muscular. He’s got a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt like the bouncers, but he’s not wearing a Revolvr branded T-shirt like the others I’ve seen mulling around. He pats De Rossi on the back in a familiar greeting and says something to the man. I get the feeling that the two of them are friends.
What if they leave somewhere together? I can’t waste any time.
To the surprise of absolutely no one, I get stopped by a bouncer at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the balcony.
“Staff only,” he says in a monotone voice.
“I need to speak to Mr. De Rossi.”
He gives me a cursory look, sniffs, and shakes his head. “And I need to go home and fuck my wife. We’ve all got our dreams.”
My cheeks redden, but I pull my shoulders back. “Please, this is very important.”
“I doubt it.”
“I just need a few minutes.”
His eyes narrow. “I said, staff only. Do you want to be escorted out?”
My nails dig into my palms. Shit. What am I supposed to do?
“Let her pass.”
I glance in the direction of the voice. It’s the brawny guy who was talking to De Rossi. He’s just come down the stairs, and now he’s looking at me with curious eyes. On his left earlobe is a small dangly silver earring.
“Ras,” the bouncer says. “You sure?”
“Ella llamó su atención.”
The bouncer gives me a cross look, sighs heavily, and lifts the velvet rope. “Go.”
I can’t believe my luck. I have no idea what this Ras guy said to the bouncer, but that doesn’t stop me from giving him a bright smile. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head as if my gratefulness is misplaced.
A frisson of fear erupts inside of me, but I ignore it. I’ve made it this far. I’m not turning back.
The closer I get to De Rossi, the harder my heart pounds. I can feel it beating in my neck, my fingers, even my feet. If I mess this up, I’m screwed.
There’s a hidden booth on the balcony that can’t be seen from below. De Rossi’s sitting there now, his arms spread over the back of the seat. Broad shoulders, trim waist, and a few inches of flowing hair that’s pushed back from his brutally handsome face. His brows are furrowed as he watches the crowd. A clip glints on his tie.
I hesitate. It’s like De Rossi’s a king holding court in his castle.
I suppose that’s exactly what this is.
As I slide into the booth and take a seat on the edge, those eyes find their way back to me. There’s a lethal charge about him. He tries to hide it beneath the crisp lines of his suit and his unruffled demeanor, but his eyes betray him. They seem older than the rest of him, with crow’s feet visible on his otherwise unlined face. What have those eyes seen?
I take a deep breath and regret it immediately. This man’s cologne is designed to make you want to drape yourself over him.
“Can I help you?” His powerful tenor slides over my skin like a silk robe. I pick up on a very mild accent.
“Hi, I’m Ale.”
“Ale…?”
“Romero.”
“What are you doing here, Romero?” He takes a spare glass from a tray in front of him, splashes what looks like whiskey into it, and slides the glass to me.
I take it and clutch it to my chest. “I needed to speak to you.”
He takes a sip of his own caramel-colored drink. His eyes flick down to my glass, and then past it to the revealing cut of my dress. His gaze lingers unabashedly. “Then speak.”
My hands itch to adjust my clothing, but I force myself not to and scramble for something to say. “De Rossi is an Italian name, isn’t it?”
He nods.
“I’m Italian too. Italian-Canadian,” I clarify. “My family immigrated a long time ago. I haven’t been back in many years.”
His brows furrow at my rambling.
Okay, time to lay it all out. I clear my throat. “I’m looking for work. I was hoping I could convince you to hire me.”
Lines appear on his forehead. I think I managed to surprise him. “You’re looking for work?”
“Correct. I’m willing to do anything.” My cheeks warm when I realize what that sounded like. “I mean, I’ll take any position you have available.”
His lips twitch, but it takes him only a moment to grow stern again. “We hired all of our employees weeks ago.”
“Ah. Well, I just got here.” The prospect of being homeless makes dread solidify at the bottom of my belly. Think, damn it. Convince this man! “This place is gigantic. I’m sure you can always use some extra help. People must come and go all the time.” I’m fishing. Deep water.
“What do you want to do here exactly?”
I smooth my palms over my lap. “To be honest, I don’t have any specific skills per se.”
“You don’t say,” he interrupts before taking another sip of his whiskey.
I pretend I didn’t hear him. “But I’m the hardest worker you’ll ever meet.”
At this, his serious demeanor cracks, and he barks a laugh.
If he wasn’t laughing at me, I might take a moment to appreciate the rumbly sound, but I’m too busy trying to keep my composure.
“Why is that funny?” I ask.
He swipes his hand over his mouth and skewers me with a no-bullshit stare. “Principessa, you don’t look like you’ve worked a day in your life. What do you know about hard work?”
His words may as well be a punch in the gut.
I swallow down the burn in my throat from his insult and force the next words out of my mouth. “That’s a presumptuous thing to say. You don’t know anything about me.”
“No, but I’ve got eyes and a brain. What I see is that you like to show off your key assets.” His gaze licks over my chest. “You seem to think that’s all it takes for you to have men do whatever you say. Maybe it’s worked back home, but unfortunately for you, in Ibiza, beautiful women are a dime a dozen. If I hired all of them, I wouldn’t have a night club. I’d have a harem.”
Embarrassment coats my skin with heat. “That’s unfair.”
“Life’s unfair. If I was wrong about anything I just said, you would have learned that lesson by now.” He looks away from me, signaling his dismissal.
A foreign feeling starts to build inside my chest.
No. No way. He doesn’t get to dismiss me like that. I’m not going to let him. I’ve let others walk all over me my entire life, but that ends now.
I don’t even know what I’m doing as I slam my glass down on the table with a loud clank to draw his attention back to me. I’ve never stood up to a man like this, never dared to, but it must be my desperation snapping my backbone into place.
“I know life is unfair,” I say angrily. “It’s unfair that men like you get to look down on women like me because of misguided first impressions. Must be nice to have the privilege to shit all over people trying to find honest work.”
He scoffs. “You don’t need honest work when you’ve got a trust fund. Those flats on your feet cost over a thousand euros. Did Daddy get tired of footing your bills? Maybe you should consider reconciling with him before trying to live out some half-baked attempt at independence on fucking Ibiza.”
“Bold statement for someone who’s Daddy probably bought this club for him.”
De Rossi’s expression tightens. “My daddy’s dead. This club is the product of my own blood, sweat, and tears. Which is why it irks me when spoiled little girls like yourself walk in expecting everyone to give them exactly what they want for just putting their tits on display.”
I shoot up to my feet. “You’re a pig.”
He stands up and steps into my space. “No, I’m a wolf. And you’re a sheep that wandered into the wrong pasture.”
My hands curl into fists as I crane my neck to look at his face. Does he think he can intimidate me by unfurling to his full height and towering over me? What De Rossi doesn’t know is that I’ve lived my whole life surrounded by men far more terrifying than him. Physically, I might not be his match, but if he thinks he can make me cower with his words alone, he’s about to be very disappointed.
“I’m no sheep,” I say, enunciating every word. “And I don’t want you to give me anything for just showing up. I want a fair chance, that’s all. Let me work here for a week as a trial. If it works out, hire me. If I don’t meet your standards, I’ll leave when the week is up.”
He trails his bottom lip with his teeth. “Why would I agree to that?”
“Because if you don’t, you’re just a judgmental jerk who gets off on putting other people down. Don’t you want to know if you’re right about me? Or are you scared to be proven wrong?”
“Hardly.”
“Then take the deal.”
A beat drops, and the crowd below us erupts in excited shouts, but De Rossi is still as he considers my offer. I peer into his eyes. Now that he’s finally shut that unbearable mouth, I am once again aware that he’s a very, very attractive man. He really doesn’t deserve those damn cheekbones or that broad forehead or those lips that seem like they’d be surprisingly soft to touch.
My stomach flutters.
A steady pulse appears between my legs.
My God, what’s wrong with me? I’m not here to admire him. I’m here to get a job so that I can keep a roof over my head.
His own gaze slithers over my body, as if I finally convinced him I’m worth a second glance.
His jaw works, and then he nods. “Fine. One week. Be here on Monday, eleven am.”
A slow, triumphant smile spreads across my lips. “I’ll be here.”
“Fine.”
“Great.”
He gives me one final weary look and then makes a small gesture with his hand at someone behind me.
Ras appears at the top of the stairs.
“She’s ready to leave,” De Rossi says after a moment.
“I’ll walk you out.” Ras extends his hand my way.
I take it, and De Rossi frowns. He’s probably already regretting our deal. As I descend the steps, I can feel his devilish black eyes boring a hole through the back of my head.
I already know he’s not going to make it easy, but I’ve survived two months of hell with Lazaro. I can make it through a week with De Rossi, no matter what he throws my way.
