SUN #3
Is it a falcon? I feel a little shiver run down my spine. A falcon was over my head when Dogger dumped me. Is it trying to tell me something too? Warn me? A sign of change?
I’m about to make a comment about it when suddenly—
"Cutting in."
A voice snaps behind me.
I turn, but it’s not Anzo.
It’s Rocco. His scarred face, twisted into that permanently crooked expression, is right behind me. I’ll admit, I didn’t see this coming.
"No fucking way," Martin growls.
But something about Rocco’s face must’ve shut him down, because he goes completely still.
"No big deal. I’ll dance one song with him," I say, trying to smooth things over.
Martin shoots me a shocked look but, interestingly, doesn’t say a word. He just steps back, then heads straight for the bar like it’s a lifeboat.
Rocco’s hand grabs my waist, iron-hard. He yanks me close in one swift, almost violent move.
We’re about the same height. Our eyes lock. I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
"You’re being invited to The Sun," he says, his voice rough like two stones grinding together. "I’m here on Anzo’s behalf."
"Oh, thank you," I say lightly. "Does the invite include Martin?"
"It’s for you. Just you." His face doesn’t twitch.
I catch his scent, and it hits me instantly, we’re a genetic mismatch.
Incompatible. It’s got that metallic edge, sharp and off-putting.
Sure, it’s usually alphas and omegas who pick up on those pheromonal cues, but I’ve trained myself to notice that buzz, that subtle charge that tells me whether I’ll click with someone or not.
Technically, compatibility isn’t supposed to matter between alphas since we can’t reproduce with each other, but it still says a lot.
"So this fortress of yours… is that the one no one gets into? And when they do, they never come out?" I flash a provocative smile.
"That’s the one. Think twice before saying yes."
I go still. Is he joking? Or is this some fucked-up mafia version of humor?
"How super inviting," I say dryly. "Gotta admit, after that creepy sales pitch, I’m not exactly feeling convinced."
Rocco’s expression doesn’t change. He stares somewhere over my shoulder.
"One million dollars. It’ll be in your account. In return, you spend one weekend at The Sun."
I blink.
Yep. Like I said, I’m not here for the money. A million dollars just so some old mobster can wreck my ass, and who knows what else. Guys like that have… unique tastes, to say the least. So no. Not tempted.
"No thanks," I say with a smirk. "I only fuck my boyfriends. I guess I’m just… old-fashioned like that."
Rocco narrows his eyes just slightly. Then he lets go of me and steps back.
"Have a good evening."
And… he walks away. Doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t insist.
I smile faintly. Do I play a game here? Well, maybe. The thrill of a game is what breaks the boredom.
And besides, hell no, I’m not selling myself cheap. When you start handing out the goods to just anyone, the value tanks. Guys like the chase. They crave it. Gotta give it to them. Otherwise, where’s the fun?
Life’s taught me: knowing how to say ‘no’ often gets you the biggest, loudest ‘yes’ in the end.
Martin reappears beside me.
"I took the liberty of eavesdropping on your subtle little convo," he growls.
"And? You happy with how I handled it?"
He hesitates. "Well, I’m a little surprised. For a million bucks, I probably would’ve said yes."
I scoff. "And that’s where we’re different. It’s not about the money. It’s just…" I trail off, thoughts drifting to open roads, the sky above, wind on my face. "It’s not everything I want out of life."
"Oh really? Sounds like bullshit. Why’ve you never dated a broke guy?" Martin shoots back. "What’d you have, ten boyfriends? And none of their daddies had less than seven figures in the bank."
I stare at him, jaw clenched.
In fact, I did date a broke guy once. Best relationship I ever had. Dogger was a kid from the trailer park who joined a gang just to survive.
"There weren’t that many," I mutter. "But you’re right. None were poor. It might look like on the outside that’s all I care about, but it’s not."
"Riiiight," Martin says, pulling a face. "Stop trying to turn your dating history into some romantic idealistic fairy tale, Sun. You’re more basic than you think."
My jaw tightens. I’m getting pissed.
He leans in. "You know what guys like Anzo live for? Resistance. The more you push back, the more he wants you. And you think you’re running this game? Be careful. You don’t even know what the game is."
He turns to walk away, but I grab his arm.
"Don’t psychoanalyze me, Martin. You don’t know shit about me."
He yanks his arm free.
"Oh, please. Everyone says that. Everyone’s got some tragic, soul-crushing backstory to explain all the stupid shit they do. I’ve heard it all before."
I freeze, staring at him.
"What? Am I wrong? Some asshole probably broke your heart, and now you’ve decided this is your whole identity.
You’re miserable, because you won’t let yourself not be.
It’s easier to cling to your sorrowful past than actually heal .
That way, you’re not just a regular guy.
You’re the tragic hero of your own drama.
And that’s more interesting than just… moving on. "
I can’t believe he said that. His bitterness just exploded all over me.
"Wow. Fucking wow. You really nailed me, huh? You think you’ve got it all figured out, genius? Playing some relationship role model handing out deep life advice. Please. But it's you who wanted to date me ! You're just looking for a pretty face and a nice ass, so you're not that deep in the end."
Martin’s lips twitch contemptuously.
"Gosh, you are such a disappointment, Sun."
"And you are boring!"
His face tightens.
"Fine. At least I won’t leave the kind of scars he will. Good luck, Sun. Don’t call me crying later when he slices up that pretty face and widens your smile with a switchblade."
He turns and walks off toward the exit.
What the fuck just happened? Why did it all blow up like that, why the drama, the personal jabs? I didn’t like it one bit. Maybe he did hit a nerve, something real deep down, but I don’t care. Things are the way they are. I can’t change it. Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I don’t know how.
My emotions are yanking me in all directions as I turn and head for the main exit. I need to call an Uber and get out of here.
I came here with Martin, but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving with him. That asshole pushed me way too far.
Frowning, I pass through the archway, decked out with colorful flowers and small balloons like it’s a fucking birthday party, and step out onto the parking lot.
No one’s around. I cross the lot and stop at the curb. It’s a commercial district. The hotel’s surrounded by a hedge, and beyond it I can see some decorative little groves. No buildings in sight. I have to leave the parking lot and get to the street to catch an Uber.
I pull out my phone.
Then—
Footsteps behind me.
I turn around.
Two tall alphas in suits are walking toward me. Instantly, something feels off. They’re both wearing sunglasses. FBI? Maybe. But more likely… mafia muscle.
One of them says, "Come with us. Mr. Ferro is expecting you."
"Excuse me? But I’m not expecting Mr. Ferro."
That’s when the vibe gets bad. I turn to walk away, but their hands clamp down on my elbows.
"What the fuck is this?" I shout. "Let go! Ferro can shove his invitation up his ass. I’m not going anywhere, you fucking bastards!"
But they’ve got me. One on each arm, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing. I’m tall, but they’re more jacked. I thrash and yell as they drag me across the parking lot toward a black limousine I hadn’t noticed before, parked in the shadows near the booth.
"Fuck! Let go of me, you assholes! You psychos!"
I kick, twist, fight with everything I’ve got, but their arms are like iron. I’m no lightweight, I’m six foot five and decently built. But it’s not enough, not against them.
They shove me into the back of the limo and slam the door. It locks with a grating sound.
I spin around and see a figure sitting in the dim light inside the car.
Of course.
Anzo fucking Ferro.
"I don’t give a shit if you’re the goddamn head of the whole mafia," I hiss. "When I say no, I mean no!"
That’s when I feel hands behind me, grabbing at my neck, and something cold snaps tight around it.
I jerk, trying to break free. My fingers find metal… a fucking collar. And then I hear a click. Whoever put it on just locked it.
I twist to look, and there he is. Damn. Rocco Ferro.
"What the fuck is this?! You think you can just kidnap me? I’ve got eleven million followers on Instagram. You really think no one’s gonna notice I’m gone?"
Yeah, out of all possible arguments, that’s probably the dumbest. But panic makes you silly, right?
Rocco grabs the back of the collar and yanks. Hard. The metal digs into my throat, and for the first time, real panic floods me. I can’t breathe, I kick wildly, reaching behind me, but all I hit are his rock-solid arms. They don’t budge.
The pressure builds, my vision goes spotty. My limbs flail uselessly. I’m about to pass out when, finally, the tension eases. I cough, gasping, pain lancing through my neck.
Fate, please don’t let him have crushed anything in there. I cough again, and again.
I lift a hand to the collar, trying to wedge a fingertip between it and my skin. Somehow, I manage it.
Rocco lets go.
I collapse to the limo floor, hunched over, trying to make out my surroundings.
Rocco sits behind me, facing backward in the limo. Anzo sits directly in front of me on the plush seating, his face calm, watching me from about seven feet away.
I cough once more, just to make sure my airway’s still open, then croak out, "What the fuck do you want from me? ‘Cause I swear to Fate, you’re not getting shit willingly."
Silence.
My anger’s burning hot, but it’s laced with fear now. I can feel it rising.