I raise my glass. “I’m drinking.”
“So, I see. I’m asking whyhere. You know it’s my club.”
Everyone knows, hence my choice. “Thank you for not doubting my intelligence,” I clip. “Delta’s the only place in the city where my daddy’s vultures won’t look when they realize I’m gone. Even if they figure out with their limited brain cells that this is where I am, they’re not allowed inside.”
Dante waves his hand at the bartender. Half a minute later, he hands him a drink and an ashtray.
Looks like he’s not going anywhere.
He lights a cigarette ignoring theNo Smokingsign above the bar. “You’re hiding on my territory. Why?”
“You’re not the brightest bulb in the box, are you?” I flip my hair over one shoulder, pinching the straw between my fingers. “I told you. No one will find me here.”
He smirks, all brazen arrogance. He takes a long, delicious drag, disappearing briefly in a cloud of smoke. “Are you always this pissy?”
“Always.”
Cruelty is now a part of my character after living under the same roof with Frankie Harston. I developed a sharp tongue and sure take after my daddy where sarcasm is concerned.
“Whyare you hiding? What did you do?”
Oh, I’m not hiding.
If I wanted to hide, I’d crawl under my bed the way I did when I was a child. Why the hell is he still here? He should’ve thrown me out the door the moment he learned my name. So important, yet so careless.
“Bad day.” I shrug, pushing the empty glass aside.
“I assume you’re also always this vague?”
“No, I just don’t feel like entertaining you with a chat.”
Someone taps my shoulder, forcing me to spin in my seat. A reasonably handsome guy smiles wide, swaying to the beat reverberating throughout the club. “Let’s dance.”
“I didn’t come here to dance.”
“Come on, please. Consider it compensation for how you manhandled me in the other room.”
I look at him again—blond hair, tall, no neck. “Are you the guy who tripped?”
He nods, taking a step closer. “Please. Just one dance. I’ve been looking for you all over the place.”
I’m not in the mood to dance, but I’m also not in the mood for Dante’s company. I’ve not mentally prepared for such a turn of events. Who knew he actually spends time in his club? Not me.
And so, the lesser of two evils wins.
I stand, adjusting my dress. “I hope you can dance...”
“Jake,” he offers, taking my hand.
“Layla.”
He flashes me another broad smile before he leads me downstairs. We squeeze our way through the dancing crowd, and Jake whirls me around, pressing my back against his chest, his arms around my middle. He’s not just a good dancer but a well-behaved one too. He’s not seizing the opportunity, not trying to grope me.
We dance through one song, and, a man of his word, Jake’s ready to take me back upstairs when “Cool Girl” by Tove Lo blasts from the speakers. I hold him in place, resuming our dance. Two more songs pass before I approach the upstairs bar again. I promised Dante I’d leave, and leave I will.
Rule number one when dealing with mafia men: Don’t test their patience. They don’t have any.
“Still here?” I ask, finding him right where I left him.