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It’s not because I’m dazed.
It’s not because I’m in shock from being assaulted.
No, it’s because the man who grabbed me is in a choke hold, screaming, his wrist at a strange angle that will probably haunt my dreams for years to come.
Behind him, the crowd is parted like some kind of Red Sea, allowing my rescuer entry.
My rescuer, who I recognize.
I would hope so—he’s been in my bed for two weeks.
What the—
“You put your hand on my girl’s, I break it,” he says as the man continues to scream, his friends standing around, unsure what to do.
A part of me—that badass, unhinged part that’s slowly breaking free as I leave my tower—almost finds it funny. Entertaining how a group of men who were so self-assured ten minutes ago are now speechless. Panicked.
It’s a pleasure to see, really.
But the rest of me is experiencing my own speechless panic. This is because in front of me, in a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, black dress slacks ending in familiar, shiny black dress shoes, is Dante, anger, aggression, and absolute fury blazing in his eyes.
“I didn’t—"
“The fuck you didn’t. We have cameras, dumbass. Heard the girl tell you no politely, heard you giving her shit. You put your fucking hands on her, wouldn’t let go. She gave back some of what you gave her, and you decided you needed to go even further. Well, congrats, further is taking you to the fucking emergency room.” His hand moves, the arm not holding the man in a choke hold moving to his uninjured wrist. “I should fucking break this one, too. Remind you what the fuck happens when you fuck with what the Carluccios own.”
What the Carluccios own.
Jesus fucking Christ.
All these weeks.
All these weeks, I had no idea.
All these weeks, I didn’t bother to ask.
Does Dante . . . work here?
Is he a fucking Carluccio?
No. No. No fucking way.
No fucking way did I somehow get wrapped up in a mystery man while attempting to plan the downfall of his family.
But then my mind remembers he’s a Romano.
There is no Dante Romano in the family, not that I know of.
But that falls out of my mind when Dante puts pressure on the man’s second hand, a finger being pulled back at an unnatural angle.
“No, man, I swear I’ll—"
“DANTE!” I shout, pure instinct coming through as I panic about the repercussions of breaking some bachelor’s fingers one by one in a crowded strip club.
It’s like a scene from a movie, all fury and zero indiscretion.
My eyes move, somehow my political-daughter instincts kicking in as phones are being pulled out, people recording.
I’m sure there’s some kind of plan. Looking back, I’ll realize there was no way in hell something like this hadn’t happened before, no way there’s not a plan in place for it, but I panic all the same.
