Chapter 10 Dante
DANTE
Iadjust the cuff of my sleeve, hating the feel of it.
It’s too smooth, too tight, cut for a man who’s never scraped his knuckles bloody in a ring.
I tug it down, reminding myself this mask is the only way inside Serrano’s showcase and busy myself looking around.
This is the first time I’ve really had the chance to look at the Royal Harlots Clubhouse without someone breathing down my neck.
The ground floor stretches wide, a converted brewery that feels like both a sanctuary and a battlefield.
Concrete floors catch the low light, and exposed brick walls rise around me.
Half of those bricks are layered in graffiti murals.
I stop in front of one where the club members’ names blaze in neon against the grit.
Impatience grinds at me. My hand flexes inside the sleeve, restless, before my gaze drifts to the opposite wall, a shrine of club colors, framed photographs of women grinning over bikes, arms slung around shoulders, fists raised high at rallies.
I lean in closer to one frame squinting.
If I’m not mistaken, that’s a Senator hiding under a baseball cap, right in the middle.
“What did you expect, a crafting room and sewing machines?” Katana’s voice comes from behind me.
I turn and it slams the air from my lungs. My stomach tightens. I bury it deep, clenching my teeth behind my smile to keep my jaw from dropping but it doesn’t stop the heat crawling up my neck.
Katana isn’t in boots or leather, or coiled to strike the way I’ve come to expect.
Her hair is down, brushed loose around her shoulders, catching the light.
The charcoal pantsuit she’s wearing hugs her hips before breaking into a flare over sharp black heels that make her long legs longer.
The jacket pulls tight at her waist, plunging into a deep V to reveal a lace-trimmed camisole.
The sleeves are sheer lace, trailing down her arms and hooking around her middle fingers, delicate but dangerous.
It hits me in the gut and I hate how fast my pulse spikes when my eyes catch on the curve of her breast beneath the fabric. She looks expensive, lethal, untouchable.
Her stare catches mine, sharp as ever. Her gaze dips for half a second, skimming the line of the suit on my shoulders, then snaps back up.
I hate how much I want to test it again and for one stupid heartbeat, I forget we’re supposed to be playing pretend.
It’s a line I’m already too close to crossing.
She doesn’t look away. Neither do I. The air stretches tight between us, charged with what neither of us is saying.
Until the door swings open and snaps it.
We break apart spinning as Lolita slips inside.
Her hair is a little mussed, lipstick smudged at the edges.
There’s an undertone under her perfume, the sharp spice of expensive men’s cologne clinging to her.
I cock my brow and she drops a velvet envelope into my palm.
I crack mine open and slide out tickets, and ornate masks that look like something from a masquerade ball.
My brow tightens. “What’s this?”
Lolita’s mouth curves, “Identities are secret,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Good thing, because tonight you’re Mr. and Mrs. Hale.”
Katana shifts her weight just an inch, lingering closer than she needs to be, the lace of her sleeve brushing against my knuckle.
I grind out, “And the real Hales?”
Lolita’s smile sharpens. “I don’t know about Mrs. Hale, but Mr. Hale..” She shrugs, coy. “He’s indisposed.”
Lolita doesn’t explain, and no one asks.
My anxiety is growing by the minute, I’m ready to get this damn thing over with.
It doesn’t matter that I’m part of this op, the Harlots still don’t trust me.
They feed me crumbs, enough to keep me useful but never enough to let me off the leash.
I can’t blame them. There’s no guarantee that I won’t strike if Serrano gives me the opportunity.
Quinn’s voice cuts in, “You’re a couple tonight. Watch the room. Don’t break cover.”
Lolita’s lips twitch as she slides a gold wedding band from her finger and drops it into my palm. Blood crusts the outer curve.
“Katana’s sleeves cover her hands,” Lolita says, “so no one will notice she’s missing hers.”
I wipe it clean with my thumb, and slip it on. I let the ring bite into my skin and remind myself that this is just another mask.
I catch Katana’s reaction out of the corner of my eyes.
Her gaze lingers on the band circling my finger, lips pressed together in a line that’s too controlled to be casual.
Not annoyance exactly. It’s restraint, sharp and deliberate, like she’s holding something back she doesn’t want me to see.
And that flicker alone tells me more than she meant to.
When she finally looks at me, her gaze is cool but I know what I saw.
There’s not a minute to breathe before Vex shoves a slim com device into my hand and another into Katana’s. “Push-to-talk only,” she warns. “No open mics.”
I nod, slotting it in the cuff of my suit. Katana slips hers between her cleavage and I swallow hard.
Katana’s eyes flick down my body, slow and unapologetic, before locking back on mine. “You clean up better than I expected."
I angle closer just enough to test her. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start to think you like me.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker there she can’t bury fast enough.
I check the gold watch strapped to my wrist. “Are you ready to play the part?”
“I’m good at pretending.” Katana quips, her voice pitched low so only I can hear. “Let’s go, Hubby.”
My mouth pulls into a grin, “The bar’s set low.”
“Then let’s hope you can clear it.” She fires back without missing a beat. Classic Katana, never letting me have the last word and damned if I don’t like it more than I should.
The room shifts into motion, the Royal Harlots spilling out first. Katana brushes past me, her arm grazing my hand on purpose this time. She glances back, a quick spark in her eye daring me to call her on it.
I follow her out the door, watching her slide into the back of the rented town car. I climb in after her, and Meadow catches my eye in the rearview, her face set, hands steady on the wheel. The door shuts with a heavy click that seals us in.
Outside, engines turn over in the lot, one after another, a chorus of deep-throated growls that vibrate the air. Headlights cut through the dark, sweeping across brick as bikes line up in formation, chrome glinting. A couple of SUVs fall in behind them ready to run escort.
Katana doesn’t give me space even as she leans back into the seat. She sits close, her thigh brushing mine as the car pulls away. My jaw tightens.
Up front, Meadow starts running over the plan again. “Once you’re inside, stay with the crowd. Keep your eyes open for any secondary access points. I’ll be parked in rotation with the other cars, ready to pull you out when you signal.”
Katana nods like she’s taking it all in. “What’s the signal if we’re in trouble?”
“Three clicks on the push-to-talk,” Meadow confirms.
I should be listening. I should be burning every detail into my head.
But I’m not. I’m watching the way Katana’s lips move when she talks, the way her voice drops into something cool and professional when she’s focused.
Her arm shifts again, brushing the back of my hand, and this time I know she feels it because the corner of her mouth twitches.
My hand stays locked on my thigh, but every mile that passes, every bump in the road, I imagine shifting just an inch closer. Imagining what she’d do if I let my hand slide to her leg, if I press my palm against the heat I can feel radiating through the fabric of her suit.
By the time the wrought-iron gates of the Bellwether House rise into view, the space between us is thick with heat, charged enough to choke on.
Katana’s been testing me the whole ride, brushing her sleeve against my hand, tossing barbs sharp enough to draw blood. Every inch of me is too aware of her.
Meadow eases us into line with the other town cars and limos, her face set in stone.
The iron gates swing inward and we idle forward in a procession along the long driveway, swallowed by a ragged row of twisted, thick-barked pitch pines.
Their dark limbs drag the night in, turning the path into a corridor of shadows, squeezing the city out behind us.
The car slows at the front. Katana slides the mask over her face, the lace brushing her cheekbones, and angles a look my way. “Time to show me what you’ve got.”
I settle mine into place, hiding my grin. “Careful what you ask for. I’ve got more than you can handle.”
Katana steps out first, catching sparks of light with every motion. For a second, even I forget we’re here for Serrano.
I step out behind her and place my hand at the small of her back. The shiver that runs through her is immediate, a flash of static that climbs up my arm.
Her stride doesn’t break. She glances back just once, her eyes catching mine, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth before it’s gone. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t gut you before the night’s over.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter coyly as an attendant dressed in black, his face hidden behind a black-and-white mask, steps up.
I flash the tickets. The scanner blips once, over the embossed QR code.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Hale.” The attendant says glancing up from the device in his hand, “No weapons, no recording devices, masks on at all times.”
I expected to be searched and stripped of my phone and the knife tucked into my pant leg but another attendant just motions us forward in line.