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Suddenly, I doubted what he wanted to show me in a back room had anything to do with shoes.
“Gattina,” he breathed, and his Bourbon-laced breath puffed over my mouth. It didn’t turn me on, not exactly. I had the kind of motor that usually needed a lot of warming up before it ran hot. “You’re needed elsewhere.”
“But my job.” I fingered his ruby tie and gave him a playful smile. “I can’t just take off when I want to.” I licked my lips and his nostrils flared again. “Much as I might want to.”
“You must want a lot, a gorgeous girl like you.” His gaze flickered over my face. “A place like this will never be enough for you.”
I tugged my lower lip between my teeth and made my eyes wide. God, I loved this game. It didn’t hurt anyone, and it was so much fun. “What do you have in mind?”
He pulled me against him, hard, and the moan I let out at the rough brush of his suit-clad cock against my pelvis was only half fake. “Let me show you.”
“Oh, how I wish.” Flashing him a grin, I stepped back up the steps. But my lack of a shoe made me unsteady, and he took advantage by grabbing me again.
“Your shift will be covered. Don’t worry, I know the owner.” The deadly flash in his eyes disappeared as fast as it had appeared. “Come with me now, Carly.”
I blinked, my seductive façade falling away. No one knew me as Carly here. I was Carlotta. Not far from my real name, but far enough.
That didn’t mean I’d let him know he struck paydirt. “Carlotta,” I corrected, adding a practiced smile for good measure.
He brushed my cheek with a blunt-tipped finger. “Now, now, friends shouldn’t lie to each other. And we’re friends, aren’t we?” He waited a beat, his mouth tightening. “Carly Ann Anderson.”
My chest constricted. All of a sudden, the smoke from the machines and mixed aromas in the club—perfume, cologne, body odor—were too much. I couldn’t catch my breath.
He said he knew the owner. That had to be it. All my real information was on my work papers. It had to be. Legalities and shit. That was how he knew who I was.
But then the question became, who else knew? And how long before all those people who knew started talking?
Word could get out to my school. I had a scholarship. Grants. I couldn’t risk them. Then there was my job at the Salad Hut. It wasn’t anything great, but I liked it. I wasn’t ready to give it up.
Then there was Fox, and my sister. Oh God, Mia. They’d never understand. She would never forgive me.
Gio wouldn’t either, even though he’d been the one to unwittingly lead me here in the first place.
I clutched the railing and fought not to sway on my feet. The walls were pressing in on me. Everyone was staring. How many of them knew?
“Who are you?” I whispered.
He smiled and leaned closer, his mouth brushing my temple. “Your worst fucking nightmare.”
Two
I’d won.
It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last. The difference was tonight, it was only a prelude to what would come after.
I’d grown used to winning for winning’s sake. Fighting took up my energy, occupied my mind. I enjoyed it like another man might enjoy a casual hobby. That mine involved blood and bruises and pain and took up ninety percent of my waking hours was the irony of my life.
One of them, anyway. I had a few.
The plus side was that fighting brought me money, and money brought me attention. I was good at what I did. Better than I’d ever expected. I was a capo’s son after all, the youngest child of a woman who’d loved flowers more than death and extortion and guns. I’d taken more after Anna Costas and her gentle ways. I’d even followed her into the floral business. My first job had been packaging up blooms in a small local place in Vegas, offering them with tips for their care to beleaguered husbands who’d forgotten an anniversary and boyfriends who were in the doghouse for one thing or another. The work had satisfied me in ways MMA never would.
But that wasn’t what mattered. I wasn’t looking for career fulfillment. Truth be told, I didn’t even intend to survive my suicide mission.
I had one goal—to rise up the ranks until I became a trusted advisor to Roberto Andretti. Then I would kill him.
The alternative was that his men would take me out before I ever reached that high. These weren’t the sort of men who ignored suspicions or doled out second chances. If they picked up even a whiff of something being off with me, I would be out. All the way out. Match over.
So I hid in plain sight, using my nearly unblemished fight record both to court their attention and favor and to buy myself the security of recognition. The more famous I became, the harder it would be for them to snuff me out like a back alley drug runner. I sought crowds and fanfare both in pursuit of my goal and to literally save my life.
