Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Armando
Marco says Don G is out at his strip club Lollipops, so I’d better get my ass over there and report.
The fact that you just whacked a guy is not the kind of thing you say over the phone, and Don G wouldn’t want me coming to his house with that shit, either. We don’t talk business around the women in the family. We leave them and all the innocent out of it. It’s part of the code.
It makes me sick that Hannah didn’t get left out of the pile of shit I’m in because tarnishing her might become the thing I regret most.
And here I thought I’d lost my conscience altogether.
I drive her van to Lollipops but park it a few blocks away. I don’t want anyone making a connection between me and my little florist. Someone’s still trying to kill me, and I can’t have her caught in the crossfire any more than she’s already been.
I stalk into Lollipops, and the whole gang is there.
It’s the old crew—Don G’s inner circle, minus Alex, his son-in-law.
He’d already been like a son to Don G, and he ended up marrying his daughter while I was in the pen, so I’m guessing he’s permanently banned from Lollipops out of respect to Jenna.
Funny, at this moment, I wouldn’t mind the same. The girls twirling around their poles do nothing for me. Neither does the male company.
Lollipops is a reputed strip club in the city.
It has an old-school vibe to it, with neon signs on the walls and velvet-covered furniture.
There are two stages at the back of the room, each with its own pole, where two dancers will perform simultaneously.
Two large bar sections fill the main area of the club and a few smaller tables littered around for more intimate conversations.
The music blasts from speakers set up around the club and seems to fill every corner of the room with booming bass.
The walls are adorned with black and white photographs of former dancers as well as signed photos from other celebrities who have visited over time.
While there is a decent selection of drinks available, it is mainly focused on beer, wine, and whisky since those are mostly what people come here for; there aren’t many cocktails or mixed drinks on offer.
The girls who work here wear costumes that range from barely skimpier than lingerie to some quite daring outfits—often leaving very little to imagination when they take center stage on one of the poles to show off their skills.
They move gracefully around their poles in time with the music, quickly shifting between different dance moves such as pirouettes, splits and twerks while they seductively gyrate their hips or flick their hair around like silky ribbons in mesmerizing displays which usually draws loud cheers from their audiences.
At either end of both stages stand two large LED screens displaying clips from movies—usually action flicks —that serve as background distraction for those not captivated by what is happening onstage at any given moment.
Occasionally special performances are put on where the dancers will use props and interact with the crowd— usually met with a lot of enthusiasm from everyone in attendance.
Overall, Lollipops has an air of old-school glamour infused with sin and debauchery.
But I sure as fuck don’t want to be here. Especially because I keep seeing Hannah’s teary face and picturing her trapped in flames. I will die because I can’t get out.
I know the chances of her apartment building going up in flames are slim, but dammit, now I can’t stop thinking about it.
I should have called someone to watch over her while I was taking care of business. Have someone sit outside her door. What the fuck was I thinking leaving her alone? I know better than that. I protect what is mi?—
“Hey, there he is! Mando, come over here.” Angel beckons me over. I shoot a glance at Don Pachino chewing his cigar, but he’s got a guy on each side vying for his attention. I’ll have to wait my turn.
“Everybody buys Mando a lap dance tonight,” Angel announces. “Make up for lost time.”
Lost time.
There was never a better descriptor for my years in prison.
Not the way he means, like I lost out on part of my life—which is accurate.
But for me, the time is also semi-lost. I shut down in the pen.
I mean, physically I was still alive. I slept and ate and walked around.
I fought for my life. Killed a man with my bare hands.
But I don’t remember anything. Correction—I don’t want to remember any of it. So it’s definitely lost time.
“Nah, I’m good. I just came to have a word with?—”
“Bullshit.” Angel pulls me down into the chair beside him, already signaling one of the dancers with a twenty between his fingers. “Give my friend here a dance, sweetheart. He just got out of prison.”
I definitely don’t want the dance, but I do what I’m supposed to do—slump down in my chair with my arms loose by my sides and my thighs wide, making myself a jungle gym for the girl to rub her cheap fruity perfume all over.
“Don’t say that again,” I tell Angel. I know I’m an asshole. It’s disrespectful as hell. He’s from the older generation and a capo, and the organization is all about respecting our elders. I sense him bristle, so I add “Please.”
“Yeah, all right.” There’s a grudging tone to his voice, but he’s going to let my bad behavior slide, since I’m fresh out. I got this one free pass. “I get it.”
He doesn’t say sorry—of course, I don’t expect him to—but we’re simpatico .
The dancer does her thing, pushing her breasts in my face, straddling me, then turning around and grinding her bikini-clad ass against my dick.
She’s wearing a tiny red thong and eight-inch stiletto heels that she uses to keep me in place.
Her back is arched, her head thrown back, her long blonde hair cascading down across her shoulders.
She gyrates against me like a slow-motion wave, and between the sheer desperation of her act and the fact that I’m stone cold sober and not even trying to hide my discomfort—it feels like I’m stuck in some awful time warp.
She looks over at me every few seconds with sad eyes as if begging for mercy, but all I can do is just sit there motionless, waiting for it to be over.
I work to wait for the shit to be over. I seriously don’t have the patience for this tonight.
It’s hard to imagine I ever will again. Did I really used to enjoy nights like this down at the don’s club? Playing the big man. Working hard to fit in, to play the role.
Now I just want to walk away.
From it all.
But that’s not an option. You don’t get out of La Cosa Nostra . Not when you’re a Made man. Don Pachino owns me now, for the rest of my life.
Arturo waves another girl over with a bill. “Your turn. On him.” He points at me.
Fucking Christ on a clamshell. How long will I have to endure this?
But I know if I don’t, everyone’s gonna read it the wrong way—especially the Don.
I gotta show my gratitude, be good natured here.
Yeah, I did time, but it’s part of the game.
Now I’m out, and they treat me to lap dances and help me set up my life again.
I gotta prove I’m worth the effort they’re putting in.
Also, that I haven’t rolled over or gone sour.
That’s always the fear when someone’s fresh out of the pen. Especially when they’re out a year early. But I know better than that. That’s a line I would never cross. Not outta fear, either. I am still loyal. This is still my family.
I’m just not feeling it right now.
But I’m not feeling much of anything, so that’s not unusual.
Fucking Emilio sends over another girl, and instead of waiting her turn, they give me two-on-one, a girl’s tongue in each ear, their hands all over my fucking clothes.
My cock is semi-hard because, yeah. Tits in my face. But I’m more low-level disgusted by them than I am turned on.
And honestly? If I’d come here last night—before Hannah—I don’t know if I would’ve even sprouted a chub. Hannah woke my dick from the dead.
And—fuck—she’s tied up and gagged right now in her own bed. That’s the way I repay her.
I am never having sex with you again. I swear to God.
I deserve that. But I’m also asshole enough to hope she’ll get over it. Because right now, she’s my fucking lifeline. She’s the only thing that even seems to make sense—and considering how fucked up our interactions have been up to this point—that’s saying something.
“I got your next one,” Marco calls out to me.
“No, I got it,” Leo offers.
I shake my head and Marco nods, grinning like there’s nothing going on. “All right. Next time, then.”
The dances finish, and I stand up before anyone else can send over a girl. Fuck this. I know I’m being rude. I should stay a few hours, drink a few drinks. Prove my loyalty and work my way back into the inner circle.
But that’s not happening. I walk over to Don Pachino and stand in front of him, giving Emilio the death glare until he says, “What?”
Of course, the guy’s too much of a prick to take a hint. “I need to talk to the don,” I say.
“Give him your seat,” Don G mutters, and only then does Emilio get up, purposely bumping my chest as he passes by.
Johnny, the guy on Don Pachino’s other side, also gets up, presumably to give us privacy.
“What’s wrong?” Don G says immediately.
I sink a little lower in my chair, keeping my gaze trained on the dancing girls on the stage. “Someone has a hit out on me. A cleaner showed up this afternoon outside Rocco’s. I took care of him. Just thought you should know.”
“Who sent him—someone from prison?”
“Yeah. Probably. I iced a gang member on the inside. Might be revenge for that. I don’t know. I’m staying low until I figure shit out. I won’t let it affect the job you gave me or any Family shit. Lo prometo. ”
“Call in sick to that job for a few days. You get paid time off. Let things settle. Figure this shit out.”
I nod my head and stretch out my hand to shake the don’s. “All right. Will do. Thank you, Don Pachino.”
“Don G,” he corrects, clasping my hand and letting me know I’m still inner circle. Only his closest soldiers called him by the more informal moniker Don G, for his given name, Giovanni.
I stand and nod at the rest of the group.
“Hey, Mando, want another dance?” Arturo calls.
“Not tonight. Thank you. ‘Preciate it. All of you.” Jesus fuck. I have to force the niceties over my dry lips, and they all sink like ashen lies.
I can’t play this game anymore.
I remember I used to be so good at it. The best. Now it’s like I’m playing a stranger’s part. It all feels so foreign and wrong.
I beeline it out of there and to Hannah’s van.
Fuck— Hannah.
I sure as hell hope she fell asleep.