Matei’s Dark Obsession (Ionescu Romanian Mafia #1)

Chapter 1

JORDAN

"So who are these people coming tonight?"

I call out to Lindsey, my roommate, while dragging the mascara wand through my lashes one more time.

The mirror reflects back the glitter on my cheekbones, lips painted the kind of red that screams available but not emotionally, and my hair curled into perfect waves that took forty minutes and a YouTube tutorial.

"I don't know too much." Lindsey appears in my doorway, bra on and no dress yet, phone in one hand while she scrolls with her thumb. "They are big-shot businessmen from Romania, I guess. Taylor's all nervous about it and wants his best girls on it."

She tosses her phone onto my bed and shimmies into a dress that leaves nothing to speculation. The fabric clings to every curve, black and expensive-looking even though I know she got it at the secondhand store down the street.

"Can you zip me up, please?"

I cap the mascara and spin around. My fingers find the zipper and pull it up her spine while she holds her hair out of the way.

"Taylor's always nervous," I say, shaking my head. "I don't know why he has these people come to his nightclub."

The zipper catches on the fabric for a second before sliding up. Lindsey drops her hair and turns, already digging through her purse on my dresser.

"Who the fuck knows. Money, I guess."

She pulls out a little blue vial, the kind that costs too much and promises too little except a few hours where reality gets softer around the edges. I've watched her pull that thing out more and more lately, the intervals getting shorter between uses.

"Want some?"

"No thanks." I turn back to the mirror and start organizing my makeup, dropping brushes into their holder, and look up at her in the mirror. "And you should be careful with that."

She rolls her eyes. "Relax, Jordan. It's not that bad. Makes me feel like I'm ready to party."

She tips the vial back, throat working as she swallows. She licks her lips and then grabs her phone. She looks at her screen and swears under her breath.

"Shit, we're late. Come on," she says and stomps out of my room. "I'll call the Uber."

I stand and grab my purse as my heels dangle from two fingers while my phone gets shoved into my bag. We're out the door before I can second-guess the length of my dress or the fact that my rent is due soon and tonight's tips need to cover it, plus groceries if I feel like eating next week.

Our fourplex building sits on a street just off Sunset.

The stucco needs repainting and the pool hasn't been cleaned since summer started, but we're close to the strip and nothing in this city is cheap, even if it should be.

Our Uber arrives in four minutes. It's an all-black Camry whose driver is named Marcus. He's got a four-point-eight rating and, judging from the smell in the car, he might like to drink cologne.

"You ladies going somewhere fun tonight?"

He adjusts his rearview mirror, eyes lingering.

"Work." I keep my tone flat, staring out the window.

"What kind of work looks like that?"

"The kind that pays rent," I say.

Lindsey giggles from beside me, already loose and floaty from whatever was in that vial.

"Please excuse my friend here," she says and leans forward between the seats, her perfume mixing with his cologne until the car smells like a department store. "You ever been to Omnia?"

"Can't say I have," the driver says, sneaking glances at her in between lights.

"You should come by sometime," she says, flirting and touching his shoulder. "I'll get you in."

Finally, we pull up to the club and there's a long line of people. I hop out as Marcus tries for Lindsey's phone number.

She gives him her Instagram instead, with a promise to respond to his DMs.

The side entrance is propped open with a cinder block, our usual way in that bypasses the line and the bouncers who pretend not to know exactly what we do upstairs. The back hallway reeks of stale beer as we walk past empty kegs and bottles.

Taylor intercepts us before we make it to the employee room.

"You're late."

He's sweating already, despite the industrial AC pumping cold air through the vents. Taylor always looks like he's one audit away from a heart attack, perpetually nervous, perpetually checking his phone like it holds the secrets to not fucking up his life.

"Are they here yet?" I ask.

"No, but get to the VIP section and make sure it's ready. Everything needs to be perfect."

He doesn't wait for a response. He just turns and walks away, phone pressed to his ear, barking orders at someone else.

Lindsey and I exchange a look.

"Everything needs to be perfect," she mimics in a whiny voice, and I laugh as we push through the door into the main club.

Music slams into us. The DJ's mixing something with too much bass and not enough melody, lights strobing across the dance floor where bodies press together in ways that almost look like fucking.

We navigate the edge of the crowd, past the main bar where shot girls in lacy corsets pour expensive tequila down throats, up the stairs to the VIP section.

It's behind solid doors that block the music, so it's always nice to get up here.

We walk past the velvet ropes and leather couches. The main tables in the center are already set with bottles of vodka that cost a car payment.

Marissa and Tasha are already there, checking their makeup in compact mirrors.

They smile when we walk up.

"Romanians tonight?" Marissa snaps her compact shut and drops it into her bag.

"Apparently," I say. "That's what Lindsey said."

Lindsey shrugs. "Taylor told me."

"Well, I heard they tip better than the Bulgarians who Tony downstairs said are also coming," Tasha says.

"Everyone tips better than the Bulgarians," Marissa mutters, adjusting her push-up bra.

We laugh and then fall into the familiar prep work: straightening bottles, arranging glasses, making sure everything looks untouched and expensive.

The VIP section is all about the illusion. The illusion that these men are special, that their money makes them different, that us girls laughing at their jokes actually find them charming rather than calculating how much we can extract before the night ends.

About fifteen minutes pass and people start arriving.

Our VIP section is split into two sections.

The left side is for the people that probably spent money they don't have to be here.

This section is normally filled with college kids or those young professionals that want to feel rich but have to pool their money together to get a table.

The right side, the side I'm on, is where the real players sit, and it's this section where the men we're catering to tonight reserved.

The Bulgarians arrive first.

I recognize them immediately. They are in here all the time with their gold chains, designer clothes, and, like Marcus our Uber driver earlier, wearing cologne that arrives five seconds before they do.

They're VIP regulars and they expect the full experience. They're the kind of men who expect hands on their thighs and our arms around them as we whisper promises in their ears that we never intend to keep.

I hate it all, but a girl's got to live.

My face must show my feelings because Lindsey leans in, breath warm against my ear.

"Remember, easy money tonight. And if you're lucky, you can make even more with a handjob."

She's laughing when she says it.

I hit her arm.

"Fuck off."

But she's not wrong. They'll pay for it, and in this city, that's all that matters most nights.

I paste on a smile and approach their table, already falling into character, the version of Jordan who doesn't think about how this wasn't supposed to be her life, who doesn't remember signing with a legitimate modeling agency three years ago, who doesn't replay the moment she said no to the wrong person and watched her career dissolve into thin air overnight.

No time to think about it now.

Taylor appears again, seemingly from nowhere like he does when he's extra stressed.

He nods for me to walk over to him.

"They're here," he says, his voice low.

I nod. "Okay."

"Remember, anything they want. Just do it."

"We got it," Lindsey says, coming up next to me. "Don't worry, boss." She salutes him.

He doesn't smile, just spins around and walks away.

I turn, scanning the entrance to the VIP section, and spot them immediately.

A group of men stand in the doorway, conversation flowing in a language that sounds nothing like I expected. I guess I didn't really know what Romanian sounds like. It's not quite Italian, not quite Russian, something in between.

At the front stands a man who makes everyone else look like they don't belong around him.

He's tall with dark hair styled with just enough product to look deliberate without trying too hard. He's got slight stubble on his face, but it doesn't hide his jawline, which is sharp and something most men in LA would kill for.

He's dressed in all black and his suit looks like it was made just for him.

He looks over in my direction and I look away.

"Holy shit, do you see that guy? The tall one?" Lindsey whispers beside me, fingers gripping my arm. "I'd do him for free."

"Easy, Lins. He may be good-looking, but remember, these men are dangerous."

The words come out automatically, a warning I've given before and will give again because Lindsey doesn't listen. She never listens.

The tall man approaches, flanked by six others who stay close to him while looking around the room in a way that makes my stomach tight.

They flow past us speaking rapid Romanian, and the tall one glances down at me, but I can't seem to hold his gaze, so I look down at the floor.

They converge with the Bulgarians near the center table.

They all start speaking in English, making introductions and giving handshakes. They seem to know each other, or kind of. I can't tell. Either way, some of the men are definitely measuring up the others, deciding who's more dangerous, who has more to lose, or who has more testosterone.