Chapter One
Roman
“Boss, we got a problem.”
I’m looking out over the one-way window of my upstairs office that shows the bar and dance floor below. Here I was, thinking it was going to be a slow night. I own one of the premiere night spots in Miami, and for the most part, things run smoothly. I have my fingers in a lot of pots though, so I can’t help but worry about what Joe deems as a problem.
“What’s up, Joe?” Big Joe is my right hand and my number one bouncer. He can usually handle anything, so for him to come to me is enough to set off warning bells. I swivel my chair back around to look at him.
“That kid you caught trying to sell his shit in the club last week?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s got family.”
“I fail to see why this concerns me, Joe.”
It sounds cold. Then again, I am fucking cold. Still, I gave the kid two chances to stop pushing his crap in my club. He didn’t listen. The way I see it, three strikes and you’re out. I’d already been more lenient with him than I would be others. He was so fucking young. Twenty-one. Young, dumb, and full of cum. Hell, at forty-two, I’m starting to think I’m too damned old to be doing this job anymore. I have money—more than enough money. Maybe I should just seek out some sandy beach out of the country and call it a day. Greece, my mother’s family was from there. Even if my mother was a fucking bitch, maybe I’ll find some affinity for the country.
“His sister’s been making waves,” he tells me.
“Again, why do I care?” I ask, taking a drink of my Scotch. It’s aged perfectly and the burn soothes me going down.
“She’s been talking to the cops.”
“Fucking hell. What does she know?”
“Not a lot. But you know the badges. They hear your name and they’re going to come running.”
I sigh. He’s not wrong. They just hear the name Roman Anthes and they come poking around, descending on my club, my company, and any holdings I have. Since I’m trying to broker a deal to get into bed with the Russians, that could be disastrous right now.
“Where is this sister?”
“That’s just it, boss. You just hired her.”
“I haven’t hired anyone here at the club in months,” I argue. I’m very careful about the workers I hire here. I make sure I have them all vetted carefully and meticulously.
“Not here. She started work at the Dive.”
“Waitress?” The Dive is a strip joint on the edge of a low rent side of town. I won the fucking thing in a card game. Had plans for selling it off, just haven’t got around to it yet.
“Dancer. You gave Yoly the okay to hire her a couple of weeks ago. She’s starting to get pretty popular. Yo says business has tripled since she started.”
“Does she have any idea who she works for?”
“Don’t see how she could, boss. No one knows you own the Dive, and those papers are buried and tangled so deep, even the feds couldn’t find them.”
“Do you have her file?”
“Sure thing.” He hands a plain manila folder to me and I let it stay on my desk, thinking.
“What do we have on her?” I ask, opening the folder and moving my fingers over the glossy 5 by 7 picture stapled to the application. It’s a blonde
with medium-length hair which is cut to curl toward her face and accent her strong cheekbones. Her eyes are violet. I never knew they made eyes that color. I have all my dancers photographed in nothing but their underwear, and she’s definitely got the body to make men beg. I thumb through the rest of it quickly.
“Just what’s in the file, boss. Well, that and obviously her affection for her brother.”
“What did we do with the little fucker?” I ask him. My eyes keep going back to the photo of the blonde.
“He’s at the warehouse. You have him in one of the containers.”
“So, not yet dead?”
“No, but only because Bruno has been out for his kid’s surgery.”
“How is Thomas?”
“It was a success, thanks to your generosity. Bruno says they even said Thomas would be able to walk after some therapy.”
“Good, good. Tell Bruno to hold off. The kid might prove to be useful.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking the asshole might yet prove of use to me,” I tell him without expanding. He knows me well enough that he just closes the door, leaving me to my thoughts.
Ana Stevens. The pretty blonde dancer has no idea what trouble she just landed into. I reach down and adjust my cock because the son of a bitch has been rock hard since I laid eyes on Ana’s picture. Why does it suddenly feel like, despite everything, my day is looking up?
Chapter Two
Ana
I hate everything about this club. Walking through the front doors makes me feel like I’m being locked in a prison. The staring begins immediately. Men following me with their eyes, watching every move I make. I’m not a person; I’m a piece of meat, an image they want to jerk off to, a notch on their bedpost they can brag about.
Does that sound full of conceit? Maybe. There’s a difference between knowing you appeal to men and feeling beautiful. I feel tired. At twenty-six, I’m so damned exhausted of living, but I ignore it. I don’t have a choice.
“Hey, Ana! Looking good tonight,” Joe, the sometimes-bouncer at The Dive, hollers out. I smile at him, my hand squeezing his big, scarred, beefy shoulder before walking on back to the private area.
I know the way by heart, which is good, because my vision is limited. My eyes are hidden behind my dark sunglasses. It doesn’t matter that I’m inside. I play a role, wrapping myself in a package that makes me a mystery, all designed to make men interested. They see something unobtainable.
In truth, the sunglasses hide the bags under my eyes until I get in the dressing room so Joyce can cover them in makeup. Not being able to sleep is a bitch.
I sit down at the makeup table with a heavy sigh, letting my overnight bag I keep my shit in fall to the floor. Joyce immediately comes over and starts the major tease job she always does on my hair. I hate it. I usually wear my hair simple and straight. Hell, most of the time I tie it in a messy knot and go on. But I make money off of being the Ice Queen who every man wants to melt, so I let Joyce have her way.
“You’re late,” she chastises.
“Been out looking for Allen.”
“Still no luck?”
“None. I’m starting to lose hope, J.”
I hate having this conversation. I like Joyce. She’s been good to me, and talking about this stuff with her seems wrong. When she squeezes my shoulder tight in response, our eyes meet in the makeup mirror. We’re so different, but she’s like the mom I’ve never had. She’s fifty-two but looks to be in her early forties. She has this brown curly hair that she always has styled and teased yet clipped up out of her way. Joyce has these pretty green eyes with flecks of gold in them and they see far more than people give her credit for.
“If you don’t start sleeping, it’s going to affect your show, Ana.”
“I know. I tried.”
“Might have worked if you’d quit crying over that damn brother of yours.”
She’s not wrong. Still, I can’t seem to stop the tears. I lost Allen a year ago in every way that mattered. That doesn’t mean that having him missing is any easier. He’s been gone for over a month now. He’s disappeared before, but never this long.
“He’s my responsibility,” I tell her, the truth of that lodging in my stomach.
“Yeah, but he’s killing you.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I know, doll. I know. Let’s see what magic ol’ Joyce can work to hide those bags,” she says with a sigh, going to work on my face.
Twenty minutes later, Joyce manages to pull off a minor miracle and make me look good. I go to the wings of the stage and wait for my cue. Once I’m out there, I do my best to let everything go. I let the music take over and go through my routine like a well-seasoned veteran. I should be; I’ve been dancing for nine years now. I started before I was legal. It’s amazing what fake IDs and bosses who don’t give a fuck will get you. I can work the pole and I can shake the ass. I can do everything needed to make men horny and women beg for more. I can even look like I’m enjoying it when inside I’m slowly withering away. My set ends with yelling for more. I never give them that. Isn’t that an age old adage? Always leave them wanting more? I blow them a kiss and walk off, appearing unconcerned that my breasts are completely bare as my ass, except for a small string of material. Big Joe puts the white silk robe around me and I lean up to kiss his cheek.
“Thanks, big guy,” I tell him. He knows I hate being nude. In fact, I hate everything about dancing. I did it for a few months when I hit sixteen. I needed the money to keep a roof over our heads because our strung-out mother was spending every dime she could on her next hit. You have to do what you have to do. When mom almost overdosed and did permanent damage to herself, I got free of her, in a way, and found new paths. Allen never bothered, instead following in mom’s footsteps. So here I am, dancing and trying to save my brother who is already too far gone.
“Another great show as always, Ana.”
I squeeze his arm like I always do and disappear to my dressing room. I have one more set to do tonight, and then I can leave. I need to try and search for Allen some more, or try old contacts I haven’t used in years. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept. My mind churns through all the chaos that is my life and just won’t shut down long enough to allow sleep.
I sit down at the chair in front of my dressing table. Joyce hands me a cigarette and a light, which I gratefully take. It’s a routine of mine. I always have a smoke after I dance. The nicotine helps me to calm. It’s the only crutch I allow myself. I take a drag and my head goes back, eyes closing, and I try my best to squash down the panic over Allen. I’ve tuned out the room, so when a large hand wearing one lone insignia ring on his finger reaches over and takes away the cigarette, I’m unprepared.
“Sorry, you’re not supposed to be back here,” I say, annoyed, and look around for Joyce to signal for Joe. “And can I please have my cigarette back?”
“No.”
“No?” I ask the big tall mountain of a man. He’s easily six foot five, but he’s broad as a house. He’s got dark hair that’s cut close to his head in the back and a little longer on top, dark eyes, and he wears a suit that probably cost more than my entire budget for food did the last two months combined. He screams money. Worse, he screams danger.
“My woman doesn’t smoke. That was your last one.”
“Your woman?” I ask. Something about the way he says that seems like it’s a done deal in his mind and my heart speeds up against my chest. Fuck. Where is Joe? “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but—”
“That’s easy, Ana. I own you,” he answers, and his words strike fear deep inside of me.
So much for keeping my head down and not drawing any attention.
Chapter Three
Roman
I watch her eyes dilate with my announcement. Her breathing hitches in her chest. Fear. It can be the biggest aphrodisiac there is. At least for me. Ana’s picture didn’t do her justice. She’s fucking
delicious. A tad too skinny, but she has a plump round ass that I plan to leave pink with my handprints, and tits that beg a man to fill his mouth with them and bite, marking them. Strangely enough, the part of her body that draws most of my attention is her neck. It’s long and slender, the delicate bones and corded muscle calling to the animal inside of me, and I want to clamp my teeth there every fucking day, leaving a bruise to broadcast to any fucking person around, man or woman, that she’s taken. My dick, the stupid fuck, jerks again. He’s been standing at attention ever since I saw Ana’s picture, and being this close to her is just making it worse.
“Ready to go?” I ask, my voice brusque. I’m so fucking hard it’s painful. I plan on pounding into that body and leaving her so sore, she won’t walk right for a week. It will serve her right for tying my dick up in knots.