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They have to be related, not just because they all share the same olive skin, sharp features, and even sharper suits, but they’re all similarly imposing. The one in the center is the tallest, with a superhero’s physique, looking like he pumps iron.
He raises his chin as though acknowledging my presence, but I dismiss the gesture as a figment of my overactive suspicion. There’s no way in hell a man that good looking would be checking out a woman in a thrift store dress.
“Who are they?” I ask, without skipping a dance step.
“The Montesanos.” She leans into me and adds, “The one in the middle is Roman, who’s all over social media. He’s the boss who ran the mafia from jail.”
I snatch my gaze away. There was a news story a few days ago, where someone had broken into a mansion and murdered the entire family of the man who owned the Capello Casino. Maybe those murders and his release are connected.
Shit.
After a disastrous relationship with a cop, I hate anything related to the law and lawlessness. If I’d known the girls were taking me to a club patronized by the mafia, I would have stayed at home.
Annalisa tosses her hair. “Roman Montesano was supposed to be on death row, but he’s here, looking at me.”
“For fuck’s sake, don’t look back,” I mutter. “Every day women fall prey to traffickers. What if he’s some kind of pimp?”
She huffs a laugh, as though she hasn’t read all those articles about young women going to clubs and ending up sold into brothels. Sex trafficking is rife in New Alderney, and I won’t let her become the next statistic.
Over the next few songs, Christina and Annalisa use the flier to get beer, shots, and even champagne. The alcohol soothes my nerves, and my worries fade into the background.
Later, even more booze appears, and more girls join the edges of our little dance troupe, including one in a gold dress and pretty sandals who introduces herself as Sera. I introduce her to Christina, Annalisa, and her friends as though I’m the party’s hostess.
Men gather around us like vultures, acting like they’ve never seen a bunch of women follow the same dance steps. When the music turns sultry, they swoop in for slow dances.
A vice-grip clamps around my wrist. I whirl around and lock eyes with the face that haunts my nightmares.
It’s Jim, my abusive ex.
Adrenaline races through my veins, jump-starts my heart, and pushes out a strangled scream. I left town, abandoned my friend group, quit my job, and changed my number so I could leave no traces when I escaped.
How the hell did Jim track me down to this club?
He looms over me, his face so flushed that it overpowers his red hair. Every vein on his temples protrudes with the force of his fury, and his pale eyes burn with incandescent rage.
Like most police detectives, he doesn’t wear a uniform, but I swear there’s a gun protruding through his jacket. Flinching, I try not to think about the last time he slammed its butt into my head.
“Thought you could just disappear and forget about me?” he snarls, as though I owe him something.
My pulse quickens. My breath shallows. My eyes dart around for an escape. He won’t try anything on a busy dance floor in front of witnesses. Will he? He was always careful not to hit me in front of civilians.
Swallowing back a bout of nausea, I tap into every coping mechanism I learned from my therapist at the women’s shelter and force myself to meet his bloodshot eyes.
“Let go of me.” My voice trembles.
“What the hell are you doing in this shithole?” he sneers, letting out a cloud of alcohol-scented breath.
“How did you find me?”
“When the gallery owner filed a complaint into the system with your new address, I rushed over to your apartment.” He nods in Annalisa’s direction. “Your roommate said to check in tomorrow because you would be at the Phoenix.”
Shit.
“Now, answer my question,” he growls. “What made you think I would ever let you leave?”
Sweat breaks out across my brow. How about keeping me prisoner? Forcing me to have sex? The degradation, the violence, the financial abuse? I want to spit all this in Jim’s face, but I don’t want things to escalate.
Instead, I yank back my arm, but his grip only tightens.
