When I get back to the hostel, Astrid and Vilde are in our room, and I tell them I got the job.
“Welcome to the team,” Astrid exclaims. “We should celebrate tonight.”
“Don’t you need to work?” I ask. De Rossi didn’t give me more than a moment to enjoy my achievement before flinging another problem in my face, so I’m not in the most celebratory mood.
I don’t have any papers to show him on Monday, and I have no idea how I’m going to weasel out of that. I still have my real passport—tucked under my mattress—but it’s useless to me now.
“We’re both scheduled on Saturday this week,” Vilde says. “And we were already planning on taking advantage of our day off. One of the other dancers told us about an incredible seafood restaurant that’s right on the water.”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty exhausted after the week I’ve had,” I say.
“We’re in Ibiza. The entire point is to go out and have fun and meet people. Maybe I could get laid tonight,” Astrid says wistfully. “It’s been too long. I broke up with Matthew two—no, three—months ago, and after him there was that one guy, but he was really awful in bed. He was poking around down there like I was a TV remote or something.”
Vilde and I grimace at the vivid image.
“What about you?” Astrid asks. “You have a boyfriend back in Canada that you’ve been quiet about?”
Lazaro’s face appears in my mind. “No boyfriend.” Just a possibly dead psycho ex-husband who’s only slept with me once. I’ve spent so much time hating Lazaro for what he forced me to do to his victims, that I’ve barely considered the other ways he’s harmed me. I’m not a virgin, but I’m not far off from it. My marriage was a hideous farce in more ways than one.
My one sexual interaction with Lazaro lasted all of three minutes. He took off my dress, put his fingers inside of me, and after a few seconds replaced them with his dick. I held on to him for dear life, forcing my tears back, praying the pain between my legs would go away quickly. It didn’t. It didn’t stop until he finished and pulled out.
You know what would really go against everything my family taught me? Casual sex.
Oh God, they would lose their minds if they knew their daughter not only ran away, but also became a whore. In the clan, being called a whore was the worst thing a woman could be labeled. Whores are disloyal. They can’t be trusted. They certainly shouldn’t be loved. Only fools fell for them, men that didn’t know any better.
Papà and Lazaro might find me at any moment—why not take advantage of my current freedom to really put that whole perfect mafia wife thing to rest?
I tell Vilde and Astrid they’ve won me over, and a few hours later, we start to get ready.
Astrid lets me borrow one of her provocative outfits. Unlike that first night at Revolvr, I decide to embrace showing off a generous amount of skin.
When I look in the mirror, I see a stranger. A woman with silky black hair pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck. She’s in a blue bandeau top that’s a bit too small for her breasts, and a matching blue miniskirt. Red lips painted on a canvas of pale skin. She blinks at me with long eyelashes that fan over a pair of gray eyes. The eyes seem familiar, like they belong to someone I used to know a long time ago.
When I look into them for too long, other reflections start to flash. The faces of all the people I’ve killed. One layered on top of another, until the composite product is me.
I turn away from the mirror.
Astrid and Vilde pick the perfect moment to tumble out of the bathroom and provide me with a distraction. They take me in.
“You look fucking hot,” Astrid comments, before popping a gum bubble. “I need three more minutes, and then we’ll head out.”
We leave the hostel and get on a bus. The restaurant is called Aromata, and when we reach our stop, I see that it’s right on the beach and overlooks a small bay with calm waters.
The weather is pleasant, with warm air and a slight breeze. Astrid talks to the hostess, while I crane my neck to see past her into the open-air restaurant. It’s bustling, filled with conversation and the steady beat of laid-back techno music.
The hostess grabs a few menus. “This way, please.”
We follow her to the edge of the bar where there are exactly three empty chairs. “Is this all right?” she asks.
“We’ll take whatever we can get,” Astrid says. “We’re lucky. They look completely full,” she adds after the hostess walks away.
I glance at some of the nearby plates. “Food looks great.”
“That bar looks even better,” Vilde says as she studies the bottles on the shelves behind the bar.
A cute male bartender with dark, curly hair comes over to take our orders. “What can I get you, señoritas?”
“A pitcher of cava sangria, heavy on the fruit,” Astrid orders.
“You got it.”
“And we’re from Revolvr,” Vilde says.
The bartender nods. “Can I see your employee cards?”
I give the girls a quizzical look. “What is this for?”
“Oh, we get amazing discounts here because it’s one of GR’s restaurants,” Astrid says as she hands the bartender her card. “Groupo De Rossi.”
My mood immediately darkens.
“I don’t have one yet,” I tell the bartender.
“I’m sorry, but without the ID, I can’t honor the discount.”
“Oh, come on,” Astrid whines.
“My manager will have my head,” he says with an apologetic grimace. “He’s going crazy because the owner’s here tonight. Wants everything to be perfect.”
It’s as if someone tightens a screw in my brain, making everything around me come into sharper focus.
I exhale loudly and spin around.
Four tables ahead of us sits De Rossi.
And he’s staring at me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say under my breath.
He’s at a table with Ras, three other men I don’t know, and three stunning women dressed in expensive clothes and enough fine jewelry to make them sparkle.
De Rossi lifts his glass of red wine and takes a long sip, all the while drinking me in with his eyes. I feel him on my cheeks, my décolleté… My nipples grow hard from a particularly sharp breeze, and I shiver.
Vilde elbows me. “Maybe you can ask Ras to vouch for you.”
I shake my head and turn back around. “Don’t worry about it, I’m fine.”
When the waiter hands us the menus, my eyes bulge. Twenty-five euros for a salad? Fifty euros for a piece of fish? I slam the menu closed and put it on the bar.
The girls feel bad that they didn’t realize I wouldn’t have my ID, so they kindly offer to pay for me, but I tell them I’m not hungry. They’ve been generous enough to me as is. I should have asked to get paid for the week I worked before I left Revolvr, but I was so distracted by the mention of a contract, it slipped my mind.
When the food arrives, my stomach starts to growl, so I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. The second I come out, I slam right into a hard, warm body.
“Oof!”
Strong hands wrap around my waist. Immediately, I know it’s him.
“What are you—”
“Tell me, what did you hope to accomplish by showing up here dressed like this?” he says close to my ear. Close enough for his breath to caress my neck.
My pulse speeds. “What—”
“If you wanted attention, you got it.”
I tug his hands off me. “You have no idea what I want.”
“You like having men’s hungry eyes on you. Is that it?”
“I think you’re just upset I caught you looking.”
My words slam his mouth shut. I think he might leave me alone, but instead, his hand cinches my wrist.
“What now?” I demand as he pulls me in the direction of the bar. People are staring at us, but if he notices it, he doesn’t care. In fact, it’s almost like he wants them to see us together. Instead of taking the most direct route, he walks me all the way around the dining room.
“I don’t need an escort,” I tell him.
“You have no idea what you need.”
We make it to the bar, and when he lets go of me, he leaves behind a bracelet of heat wrapped around my wrist. Astrid and Vilde slide off their stools and stammer out a few panicked hellos, but he barely acknowledges them. He’s about to walk away, but then he notices there’s no plate for me on the counter. He shoots me a furious glare I can’t begin to comprehend and waves the bartender over. The young man nearly trips over his feet.
“Si, Señor De Ross—”
“Put their bill on my tab,” he snaps.
My jaw drops. Excuse me? Does he think I’m some charity case? Didn’t I just prove to him I don’t need any handouts? “You can’t do this,” I say.
“Keep telling me what I can’t do.”
The warning in his voice is impossible to miss. I meet his dark eyes and swallow. “I’m not going to order anything.”
He turns back to the bartender. “Have the chef prepare the catch of the day, the octopus, ceviche, and all the sides.” Then he leans into my ear again. “If you don’t eat what I ordered, I’m going to come back and feed it to you. Think hard about whether you want me to do that in front of the entire restaurant.”
My heart slams against my ribcage, and I tell myself it’s due to my outrage and definitely not because of all the other feelings swirling inside my chest. “You wouldn’t.”
“I have, and I would.” He steps away and waits for me to piece it together. Damn it, he’s not lying. That stupid granola bar.
“You are infuriating,” I hiss, but I don’t think he hears me. He’s already turned on his heel and is stalking away.
Astrid and Vilde gape at me.
“I didn’t ask for him to do this,” I say.
Astrid lets out a disbelieving laugh. “What did you do to get so under his skin?”
“Nothing. I have no idea what possessed him.” Maybe he just gets some perverse joy from bossing me around.
When the food De Rossi ordered arrives, I insist they dig in with me. Everything tastes so incredibly good that my irritation eases. I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my wrist, and when I remember how he drank me in with his eyes, heat flickers on at the pit of my belly. Still, I make a point to not to look at De Rossi’s table.
The hours tick by. It doesn’t take long for Astrid and Vilde to get comfortable with our new open tab, and soon we’re all well on our way past tipsy. When the dance floor opens up, we’re the first ones on it.
They turn up the music so that it drowns out most conversation. Now that I’m heavily buzzed and well fed, I’m in a surprisingly good mood. Was I too stubborn with De Rossi? All the man wanted to do was pay for my meal, even if he acted like a brute. Maybe I should at least give him my thanks.
I look around, but I can’t see him. Just as I’m sure he left the restaurant, an arm wraps around my waist.
My blood surges through my veins like lava. “Still looking?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Only at you.”
I freeze. It’s not De Rossi’s voice. For a split second, everything around me cancels out, and Lazaro’s face flashes in my mind.
I whirl around and nearly laugh with relief. A tall stranger. He’s dangerous looking. There’s a knife tattoo on his face, to the side of his left eye, and a nose that’s been broken one too many times, but to me he is no one. Fear leaves me like a retreating wave.
Whatever he sees in my face excites him. He steps closer, pressing his chest to my breasts and planting his palms just above the curve of my ass. “What’s your name, bella?”
“I don’t give it out to strangers,” I say, trying to pull away.
“We won’t be strangers for much longer,” he says an inch away from my lips. His breath is rotten. He’s moving my hips with his hands, grinding me into his crotch like I’m some fuck toy. From the bulge pressing against my leg, it’s clear what he wants.
Everything suddenly feels dirty and sick. The alcohol—a mix of wine, tequila, and God knows what else—splashes inside my stomach, and my clothes feel too tight. I’m sweaty from the dancing, some of my hair has fallen out of my bun, and it’s sticking to my neck.
The stranger won’t let me go, and I discover I don’t have any will to fight him.
You wanted to be a whore tonight, a voice says inside my head. It’s what you deserve.
His eyes turn liquid with desire. “Come with me, bella.” He turns me in the direction of the restroom. Then he starts to push me that way, his big active body overwhelming my smaller passive one.
I glance to the side, toward the bar. Astrid and Vilde are chatting to the bartender, the three of them laughing at some joke. Maybe they’ll still be there when this man is done with me. Maybe they’ll never know what I invited upon myself with my wickedness. When days, weeks, months later they talk about this night, it will be one thing in their minds and another thing in mine. A creeping loneliness wraps around the entirety of my thoughts and squeezes hard.
Just then, the bulk of the man pressed against me disappears.
I open my eyes—I must have closed them at some point—and try to orient myself. The bathroom is to my right, the dance floor to my left, and ahead of me stands De Rossi, holding the other man by the collar of his shirt.
“You’re still here,” I say numbly.
He ignores me. “She’s drunk,” he says to the tattooed man. “Leave.”
The stranger sneers. “Fuck you.”
“Careful.”
“Who’s she to you?”
My heart picks up speed.
De Rossi’s expression is a blank mask. “No one. But this is my fucking territory, and you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
A jolt of surprise travels through me. The word territory comes with all kinds of connotations from my old life. Then I remember it’s his club, his private property.
De Rossi flexes his fists. “Don’t make me say it twice, Nelo.”
Whatever Nelo senses in De Rossi’s body language makes him grimace impotently. “I was bored out of my fucking mind in this shithole anyway,” he says with a sniff. His cold gaze passes over me, before he shakes his head at De Rossi. “You should find a few more easy sluts like her to improve the entertainment.”
I gasp as if I’d been struck.
De Rossi hears it. He pulls his fist back and breaks Nelo’s nose.
