Some gift.
“Hey, are you alright there?” The bartender eyes me with curious, albeit slightly apprehensive eyes.
I bet he expects me to burst out crying. Or maybe he’s afraid I’ll whine about the reason for my solo club outing... I’m not that cruel. No one in their right mind would willingly listen to the messed-up thoughts polluting my head. “Yes, I’m okay. Can I have a mojito, please?”
“Put it on my tab,” someone behind me says.
Thanks, but no, thanks.
I roll my eyes, which makes the bartender smirk under his nose. Delta isnotthe place where I should politely subject myself to some idiots’ wooing. I’m alone here. No one will come with a rescue mission if I get in trouble. No one from my side is welcome inside the hottest club in Chicago.
“Thanks, but I pay for my own drinks.” Irritation, sticky like honey, covers the words shooting out of my mouth.
The man takes the stool beside mine, the corners of his lips curled into a coy smile.
He’s not a drunk idiot.
No, he’s sober.
He’slethal.
A black leather jacket hugs his broad shoulders, hiding a thin, grey t-shirt. It works well with his short, dark hair and sharp features. My cheeks heat when emerald-green eyes meet mine briefly before traveling south to take me in.
I glance at the ceiling, swearing quietly.
Of course. The one heterosexual man who ever chatted me up out of his unforced will has to be the enemy.
Not mine, my father’s, but it doesn’t change much.
“I wasn’t asking for permission,” he says, his voice rough like that of an old rocker.
I click my tongue, making a show of rolling my eyes again in case he missed it the first time. The cold, harsh truth is that inside I’m shaking like a cornered baby deer. I didn’t expecthimtoapproach me. I didn’t expect to see him tonight, yet here he is in all his merciless, unforgiving, arrogant glory. The bartender sets a tall glass before me. I hold out a twenty, adamant about paying, but before he accepts the cash, he glances at the man on my left, awaiting his call. He nods once, an enigmatic response worthy of a powerful man like him.
“Will you introduce yourself, or would you rather stare at me all night?” I ask, closing my lips on a twirly straw. The alcohol should ease the tremble of my hands and the erratic rhythm of my pounding heart.
There’s no need for an introduction. I know exactly who he is. I’m actually having a hard time believing he casually took a seat beside me. All things considered, he should know who I am too. He should also throw me out of his club, but no. By the look of him, he has no idea that here sits beside him, the daughter of the man who’d sacrifice almost everything to see him dead.
Careful not to get caught, I check him out, flinching at the sight of a gun strapped in the holster by his belt. That might end up pressed against my temple a few minutes from now, once he learns my name. I move my gaze back to his eyes and then, like a cheap detective, to his left hand. The signet ring adorning his finger betrays his surname better than a birth certificate could.
He turns my way, eyebrow raised, eyes sliding up my body to meet mine. “Dante.”
“Dante Carrow,” I scoff, straightening my spine.
“Same one.”
My impudent behavior has a different effect than anticipated. Matching his arrogance won’t work. I’m not nearly good enough at this game. Instead of the desired reaction—a muscle ticking on his square jaw, betraying annoyance, he presses his lips together, fighting a smile. He’s enjoying this.
Nobody within a ten-mile radius would dare snap at him as I just did, yet he finds me amusing. If not for the volcano of emotions erupting inside my head every few seconds, maybe I wouldn’t hiss either. Then again, if not for the volcano, I wouldn’t have entered Delta.
Dante is the mafia boss ruling the South of Chicago. My father commands the North. Two biggest enemies in the history of this city scrambling for power.
Dante can easily use me as bait. He can threaten my father’s business by holding me hostage. He can throw me in the trunk and take me somewhere no one will ever find my body, no matter how long they’d look. Daddy may keep me away from his work, but I’m not daft. I hear things not meant for my ears. I have some confidential information Dante could force out of me. I’m sure he’s very persuasive when the mood takes him.
Thankfully, I’m still raging after Chase’s confession, or rather my father’s blatant broken promise, so I don’t care.
I glance back into his hypnotizing eyes. “So,Dante, I suggest you find another girl who’ll entertain you. If it’s not too much trouble, don’t summon your pawns. I’ll let myself out once I finish.” I point at my drink when two lines crease his forehead. “I’m Layla. Layla Harston.”
“Layla Harston,” he echoes. My name on his lips sounds like a sexual innuendo. “My, my. What are you doing here?”