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The girl nearly runs for the stairs the moment I release her, and as I watch her go, I can’t help wondering if this was a mistake.
She was involved with Altiere in some way. She likely knows things about him—or, even if she doesn’t, she could cause problems for me and my family if she goes poking into the circumstances of his death. But something tells me she won’t. Something tells me that she might be glad to be rid of him.
They clearly had some sort of financial arrangement, based on the excuse she gave for her theft. My guess is that she fucked him for money, which makes an uncomfortable sensation crawl across my skin. I have nothing against escorting on principle—my brothers and I own a club, the Neon Rose, where some of the girls offer additional services. But the difference is that no one is coercing them. We don’t force them to provide any menu items that they don’t choose to, and a guest trying to force any of the girls into doing something they don’t want to do is grounds for their membership being revoked. Whatever this girl’s relationship with Altiere was, it seems clear to me that it wasn’t strictly consensual.
That whatever she was doing was out of necessity, not out of any desire or pleasure in the act.
Which was why, ultimately, I had to let her go. She might be disappointed in her loss of income, but she’ll find someone else to fill Altiere’s place in her life. She had a particular air of fragile delicacy that appealed to men who like control over women, and she was extremely beautiful.
So beautiful that it was hard for me to think straight while I had her pinned to that wall.
I have my own predilections, fantasies that I enjoy playing out from time to time, but I always engage in them with a willing partner. I have a few women who I see occasionally, when the mood strikes, though I’m less inclined towards lust than either of my brothers seem to be. Which made my reaction to her all the more startling.
She felt so fragile under my hands. Almost breakable, like a porcelain doll. Her features were even doll-like—that delicate face, her slender, petite frame, that straight blonde hair that fell over her pale skin and pink silk dress. But as fragile as she seemed, there was some steel underneath all of it. Her willingness to talk back to me even while I held her up against a wall told me that much.
I watch her go, and I almost regret not getting more time with her. Not, at least, finding out her name. It’s an unusual feeling, and it makes me vaguely uncomfortable. My only concern should be whether or not my decision to let her go will complicate things for us. Not whether or not I’ll regret not having gotten any means to find her again.
It’s better for us both if neither of us ever sees the other again. But I can’t shake the feeling of her silky soft skin under my hands, or the sweet berry scent of her.
I’m not the type to care about saving a damsel in distress. Whatever problems sent her running to Altiere, they’re not mine to fix, and I don’t want them to be. But something about her particular mixture of desperation and ferocity piqued my interest.
It’s not an interest I should entertain.
With my business at the mansion finished, I stride downstairs with the intent of telling the driver to take me home—until I remember that I’m due for late drinks with a potential business associate.
Fuck. I briefly consider calling Dante and asking him to do it, but he’s probably busy with Emma—likely in some capacity that I don’t want to picture. The two of them have been inseparable since we rescued her from Altiere, and they figured their shit out—or started to, anyway. I’ve tried to mostly stay out of what it is that they have going on. I didn’t think their relationship was wise in the first place, but Dante has rarely listened to me in the past. This wasn’t going to be the occasion that changed that.
I open the calendar in my phone, reminding myself where I’m meant to meet this person. It’s not like me to forget things like this, but the past few days have been unusual. I can probably be forgiven for a little absent-mindedness.
Mostly, I don’t want to make mistakes because I can’t get a woman that I encountered once out of my head, suddenly.
“Take me to the Copper Rabbit,” I tell my driver as I slip into the SUV, leaning back against the cool leather of the seat. I’ve been there once before—it’s one of those popular speakeasy-like bars that prides itself on being vintage, while coming up with some of the most outlandish drinks known to man. It also has plenty of discreet, darkened areas to sit in, which makes it suitable for meetings where the person I’m meeting, and myself, might prefer not to be easily seen.
As the SUV pulls out onto the main street, I glance out of the tinted windows before I can stop myself, looking for the girl. She must have called a ride once she got away from the mansion, but I can’t help wondering if she was safe. If I should have offered her a ride to wherever it is that she lives. If leaving her to run off on her own after an encounter like that was the wrong thing to do.
Why do I care? I’m the underboss of a mafia family, not a knight in shining armor. The girl was lucky that I let her go in the first place. Anything more is far outside of the realm of what I should have been offering her—and she would have been foolish to accept help from me.
Still, she lingers in my mind, all the way to the bar.
The interior of the Copper Rabbit is dimly lit, with forest-green velvet seating and dark hardwood floors, Edison bulbs offering what lighting there is. A tall, curvaceous hostess in a black bustier dress, heels, and a hairstyle evocative of 1920s finger waves leads me to a half-moon booth in the very back of the bar at my request. It leaves me able to sink into the shadows without much effort on my part, while I wait for the man I’m supposed to meet to get here.
A waitress in the same outfit, but with long curled black hair and a slash of red lipstick, comes to get my order. “A Manhattan,” I tell her curtly. “Best whiskey you have.”
She brings me the drink within a couple of minutes, and I sit back, sipping on it. It’s a relief to at least have that after the day I’ve had, even if it’s not in the comfort of my own home, the way I would have preferred. With any luck, this meeting will be brief, and I’ll be there sooner rather than later.
I catch a glimpse of the man I’m meant to meet with a few minutes later, being guided back by the hostess. He’s tall and deeply tanned, with wavy black hair styled away from his face and a pleasant expression, wearing a perfectly tailored pair of dark blue suit trousers, a crisp light pink button-down, and a matching dark blue blazer. He strides directly to the booth and takes a seat, his dark gaze landing squarely on me.
“Campano. I apologize for being a few minutes late. You know how Los Angeles can be.”
“I do.” I wait while he puts in his order with the waitress—a top-shelf gin and tonic, no nonsense. I like it. “No apology necessary, Vasquez. I think we can get down to business.”
“Of course. You want to run your drugs through my clubs. I want to make sure my cut is fair. So long as we can come to an agreement, I think this will be a short meeting.” The pleasant smile is still affixed to his face. “So?”
Vasquez is someone we’ve worked with in a smaller capacity before. He has several clubs in LA, from seedier dives all the way to the sort of exclusive, membership-only club that rivals something like Soho House. I want our drugs to be made available all the way up to that top level.
“Sicily has recently reached out to us about expanding. I prefer to work with people I know, and can trust. I want to expand on what we’ve done before. Your cut will be generous. You get first choice of how much merchandise you want to have pushed through your establishments, and ten percent of the profits. The limit is only on how much you want to make, and how much you feel comfortable moving.”
Vasquez raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of his drink. “Fifteen percent. And the pure MDMA is exclusive to my clubs.”
