Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
FINA
“You look like a goddess,” Camilla says, eyes wide with a mix of admiration and too much limoncello.
We’re squeezed into the back of a taxi, limbs tangled and bodies slick with summer sweat, in tight dresses, towering heels, fake lashes, bold war paint, and wigs that whisper dare me.
My blonde wig spills over my bare back, sexy and sensual. Less goddess and more bombshell about to make questionable choices.
Camilla’s edgy blue bob frames her sharp cheekbones like it was made for her. Bianca’s wild red curls make her eyes glow. We’re a three-alarm fire, and impossible to ignore.
I thank God for saving me, but I’m not cut out to be a nun.
When Bianca suggested dress-up, I embraced the idea. I can steal into the night, laugh loud, dance hard, live like I never almost lost it all, incognito.
Bianca’s apartment is a short distance from Dante’s club, but we cab it the few blocks. We can’t let Camilla loose on the streets in stilettos, not with her tottering like a baby giraffe on cobblestone. We’re ready to conquer Rome, not eat asphalt.
The club is alive and bouncing with an electric energy as we’re ushered in.
Our first stop is the bar, where we order more limoncello shots. “One, two, three,” we chant, and then—very American-style—slam our shot glasses upside down on the bar. Earning everyone’s attention.
“Now we dance,” Camilla proclaims, linking arms with us.
We storm the dance floor like we’re tonight’s main event.
And soon, I’m laughing and dancing like a fool, the strobe lights sweeping away fear, pain, and sorrow, pulverizing my heartaches into tiny colorful particles of light, then casting it into the stratosphere.
This is the life I dreamed about.
This is the joy I deserve.
Techno-pop has the dance floor vibrating, and a sea of moving bodies surrounds me. I’ve always been a good dancer, and tonight, I feel it, bumping, fist-pumping, alive. So alive.
An arm snakes around my waist, and I’m pulled back. I step on his instep and break free, then glance over my shoulder and realize I’ve nothing to fear.
Okay. He’s hot. Strong jaw, a determined tilt to his lips.
He moves in again, and this time, I let him.
It feels nice, and I sway along with his movements.
We dance together for several songs until he goes in for a kiss.
I don’t know why I balk, turning my head at the last second before stepping away.
Frustration surges, raw and aching. Followed by truth. If I’m truly committed to starting over, the past needs to stay in the past. I was slightly obsessed over one man for far too long. He has no right to be in my mind or heart. I never want to see him again.
And now, you never will.
I spin back toward my dance partner, driving all thoughts of him aside.
Only to find my dance partner locking lips with Bianca.
What the hell?
Camilla shoves between me and them, her voice cutting through the music.
“Come on. Fina. Bathroom!” Hand on my elbow, she drags me across the dance floor, then down a hallway to a bathroom. We wait our turn to enter, then once we do, Camilla locks the door behind us.
“Sorry about Bianca,” Camilla says, now that we’re alone.
For a busy club, the restroom is spotless. As I reapply lip gloss, I notice even the mirror’s streak-free.
“You were vibing with him first.”
She’s more upset than I am.
I shrug. “He’s just a stupid boy.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“I’m not the jealous type, especially not over eye-candy I just barely met.”
“That’s what Bianca was about.” Camilla side-eyes me. “She was trying to make Dante jealous.”
I stiffen. “He’s here?”
“With another woman.”
Well, hell with that. “Come on,” I say. “We should rescue her before she does something crazy.”
We retrace our steps down the hall, heading back to the dance floor.
Bianca is nowhere to be seen.
“Upstairs.” Camilla points to a balcony, and I follow her to the stairs in the corner and blocked by security.
The mafioso asks for our names.
“Camilla,” she offers before I can stop her.
He checks his list.
It’s obvious my friend’s never been to a VIP room before. What name will get us in? What name carries enough weight to make him step aside?
“Beneventi,” I say, forcing the word through clenched teeth.
He waves us through without even looking down.
Camilla throws me a quick look, which I pretend not to see. Still, a cold prickle crawls over my skin because that was too easy.
We climb the stairs and step onto the balcony overlooking the dance floor.
Everything is tastefully done. Burgundy curtains soften the industrial beams holding the loft in place.
Plush sofas form intimate circles around low tables, grouped strategically for maximum privacy.
The space feels expensive and deliberate. Dante has exquisite taste.
“Not crowded, like we figured,” I say, eyes sweeping the room.
Camilla walks to the railing and peers down at the crowd. “I don’t see Bianca. Or Dante.” She sighs. “Probably off in some back office with Bianca’s replacement. No wonder she’s spiraling.”
Laughter bursts from a group of women gathered around one of the large velvet sofas. The sound reminds me why I came. I’m about to tell Camilla we should head back to the dance floor, where Bianca’s more likely to find us, when the women shift places.
And I see him.
Laid out like a king in ruin.
Suit jacket’s balled beneath his head in a makeshift pillow. White dress shirt unbuttoned down to his navel. Chest rising and falling in slow, heavy rhythm. Eyes closed. Out cold.
Wasted.
A woman moves, exposing an open whiskey bottle on the table within his reach.
“God,” Camilla mutters under her breath. “Him again.”
No freaking way. How can this be?
Rage simmers just beneath the surface, boiling up like lava poking at a crack. “You know him?”
“He was at the restaurant a few weeks ago with Dante.” Camilla offers a casual shrug. “Looked about the same. Like death warmed over.” She even smiles. “He’s quite the character.”
A woman leans down and gives him a shake. Nothing. He doesn’t stir. He’s lights out, lost in whatever black hole he’s crawled back into.
And all at once, the memories crash in—
Him swaying on unsteady feet.
Him chanting my name, like that’d make everything better.
Fina. Fina. Fina.
His lame excuses. My disappointment.
Take care of me? How could he when he can’t even take care of himself?
I charge forward, push through the women, storm straight at him, and snatch the bottle.
Behind me, Camilla shrieks, “Fina, no—don’t—”
But it’s too late.
I empty the contents over his head, dousing him.
He jerks awake, coughing, sputtering, gasping for air.
I drop the bottle, and then slap him. The crack of my palm echoes like gunfire.
His head snaps to the side. He blinks, whiskey streaming from his lashes, dazed but not totally defenseless. And much quicker than I expect, he grabs my wrist, tight and fast.
“What the hell?” His voice is rough and groggy.
“Fuck you, Renzo, you promise-wrecker. No, fuck you twice—all the way back to Rhode Island. You don’t get to ruin my new beginning. Go be reckless somewhere else.”
He shakes his head and blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision.
I don’t regret what I’ve done, not in the slightest. He’s worse than I remember, a mess of drugs and liquor and women who don’t know any better.
I didn’t either.
But now I do.
There’s shouting. Security swarming and hands grabbing. Camilla’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Fina!”
We’re escorted away.
Out of the balcony.
Out of the club.
Away from the man I hoped to never see again.
RENZO
You promise-wrecker.
I roll to my side, wondering why my mind’s fucking with me. I made my peace, healed a wound that finally scabbed over, only to wake up feeling like it had suddenly bust open again. Booze, drugs, sex aren’t to blame—I celebrated Vito Cardini’s kill without falling back on destructive habits.
With a groan, I glance around. The club’s quiet, and I’m completely alone in the VIP room. Fuck, the adrenaline had me soaring all night, then crashing like a child thrown into sleep, numb and blind to everything around me.
I sit up, my foot kicking an empty bottle, cheek stinging, while I shake off the buzz kill, then head downstairs to the bar for a much-needed caffeine fix.
Dante’s already there.
“Espresso,” I rasp.
The bartender gets to work. Dante looks me over and chuckles. “You look like I feel.”
I grunt.
“Damn,” Dante chuckles. “Was decapitating Cardini what you meant by giving the Eleven something else to think about?”
Christ, he’s still celebrating? Wants all the gory details, does he?
The bartender places a small cup before me. I stir in two sugar cubes, then take a sip, sighing after the caffeine hits my tongue. “It worked,” I finally say.
“But no chain saw?” Dante teases.
“I don’t know if I’ve got the stomach to rehash all the minute details.”
“I asked Luciano to handle matters.” He smirks. “Still, you had to be the one to do it.”
“Off Vito? Fuck yeah.”
“Luciano will be pissed.”
“Send him the video. He’ll be less pissed.”
I expect satisfaction to settle in, but instead my thoughts crawl back to the blonde. Like she never really left.
Go fuck yourself twice—all the way back to Rhode Island.
She knew who I was. Knew my name. And still came at me like I was a nobody. Like I was worse than nothing. “You see an angry blonde in a short dress exit the VIP room last night?”
“I was occupied.”
I laugh. Sex is like air for this asshole. “Bianca’s easy on the eyes.”
My comment’s met with silence.
“Not Bianca.”
“No.” He tosses back his espresso, then gestures at the bartender for another. “It got messy.”
“Bet it did.”
“Had to have her and her friends escorted from the club. A shame. I was digging the red wig she had on.”
I frown. “Wig?”
“Yeah. She and her friends are into role-playing. Chick shit, you know.”
Espresso sloshes over the rim, and I stare at my shaking hand.
“Adrenaline crash,” Dante says, locking in. “You’ll get used to it.”
I say nothing. Let him think I’m coming down from a natural high.
Because the truth is the blonde triggers another memory.
Of the man I thought I left behind.