Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
ALESSIO
It’s possible that I’ve lost my entire fucking mind.
I should have at least stopped back at my apartment to change into some respectable clothes instead of showing up at the club looking like a mook in a pair of dark sweatpants and a black T-shirt, my handgun—a different one than the one my intruder stole, obviously—strapped to my ankle, hidden by the bulk of my pants.
For all I know, the person who slid into my DMs could be trolling me, or worse.
And stepping inside Wonderland with the sea of writhing, half-naked bodies on the dance floor and just as many drunk, horny idiots crowded around the bar, it’s fucking laughable to think that I would be able to find The Ghost in here, even if I knew what he looked like.
He could be wearing a Ghostface Halloween mask and waving glow sticks around like an air traffic controller and I could still miss him in this crowd.
Fuck it. I’m here; I might as well have a drink before I head home.
The night’s young, after all, and going back to my apartment to haunt the forum and hope for another home invasion for the fourth night in a row sounds a little pathetic.
The pheromones are thick enough in the air here that I’m even a little tempted to find some company to take home with me.
My mind immediately conjures the image of my intruder’s face, and I laugh at myself under my breath.
Maybe Xaviaro and the others have a point about my tendency towards obsession, but I’d rather think of it as passion.
I’m a man who knows what he likes and holds on to it hard, even when it’s past the point of sane or rational.
Is that really the worst quality to have?
I guess I can see the downside when my two current obsessions happen to be a faceless vigilante with multiple targets on his back and a nameless cat burglar I’m not likely to ever see again.
Fuck, now I’m depressed.
I push my way up to the bar, shouldering past a man in a leather harness, taking a lingering, longing look at his attire and ignoring the glare he shoots me for being so damn rude. There aren’t any open stools, but that’s not a problem if you’re an asshole in a bad mood like I happen to be.
“Move,” I bark at a big bear of a guy sitting on the nearest stool. He swivels around to look at me, his brow low and a scowl already etched on his face.
“Excuse me?” he growls. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
I stretch my mouth slowly into a menacing smile and lean close.
“Alessio Moretti. Who the fuck are you?”
His eyes go wide and he immediately jumps up, knocking his seat over in the process.
“Sorry, I didn’t know.” He hurries to right the stool with shaking hands and then backs away, bumping into a few other people in the process.
I keep smiling until he’s gone, then plant my ass on my newly claimed real estate.
My last name isn’t even Moretti, obviously.
But Alessio Bianchi has a lot less of that pants-pissing terror behind it.
Alessio Bianchi sounds like he owns an underperforming Italian restaurant and wears cheap suits.
Xaviaro’s lucky—he doesn’t even need to add Moretti for people in Wildcliff to shit themselves.
Half the time he doesn’t have to open his mouth at all.
That ice-cold stare of his does all the work for him. I need to work on that.
My intruder had a damn good icy stare.
Heat rushes up my spine, and I curse under my breath. Fine, yeah, my obsession is definitely a little out of hand.
I watch the bartenders behind the bar move back and forth with a mesmerizing frantic energy, the colorful lights dancing across their skin to give them an otherworldly look about them.
I’ve only been to Wonderland a few times, but I have to admit, there’s something intoxicating about it.
It feels like an acid trip brought to life, only hornier.
The bartender with the top hat scurries past and I wave to get his attention.
“Good drinks come to those who wait,” he says, flashing me a smile before turning his back on me to start working on a drink for someone else.
If I flash my gun, will it speed things along or get me kicked out?
I’m tempted to find out. I really do want a damn drink though, so I decide not to risk it.
While I’m waiting, I glance one way down the bar and then the other.
It’s hard to get a good look at anyone’s face, and I’m still not sure what made me think I’d know The Ghost if I saw him anyway.
Could be a woman for all I know. It’s hard to picture that, but anything is possible.
One man sitting at the far end of the bar catches my attention. My stomach swoops and my heart races. Is that pink hair or is it just a trick of these damn lights? There could be other guys with pink hair in this city, but I’d be willing to bet it’s a pretty short list.
I start to slide off my seat when the thud of a glass being set down heavily on the bar in front of me draws my attention.
It’s not the Mad Hatter, or Mads, as I heard people calling him last time I was in.
It’s a bartender I haven’t seen before, with light blond hair that looks eerie in the flashing lights and huge blue eyes that look almost too big for his face.
He doesn’t look like he belongs here at all, like a place like Wonderland might eat him alive. But that’s none of my business.
“I didn’t order anything yet,” I shout over the thumping bass of the song that’s playing.
A smile curls briefly on his lips. “It’s from that guy.” He gestures vaguely down the bar and my heart breaks into a sprint.
I whip my head around to look down to the end of the bar again, but he’s gone.
“Which guy?” I ask, but the bartender’s already long gone too.
Fuck.
I pull the glass towards me and bring it up to my nose to sniff it.
It smells like Scotch. I doubt they have a poisoned drink on the menu, so it’s probably safe.
I’m more concerned about who sent it. It’s too big of a coincidence, right?
I take a sip and then swivel around on my stool, scanning the crowd for another flash of pink hair.
He’s here, I can feel it all the way down to my damn bones. I’m not letting him just walk away again. I’ll take this whole fucking club hostage and force them to bar the doors until I find him if I have to. But, fuck, I don’t see him.
I turn back towards the bar just as the little blond bartender is speeding past again with two beers in his hand.
I shove my drink aside and crawl halfway over the sticky bar top to grab him, snagging the front of his shirt in my fist. He lets out a startled yelp and spills one of the drinks all over my hand.
“Who was it? Do you have his name? Does he have a tab? Is he a regular?” I demand.
His eyes only get wider at my rapid-fire questions, and I grit my teeth in frustration. Maybe I’ll have to pull my gun after all. Mads appears out of nowhere, bringing his hand down hard on my wrist, forcing my grip to loosen so the frightened little bunny can scramble away.
“If you Morettis keep assaulting bartenders, you’re going to be blacklisted,” he warns, dropping all the riddles and bullshit.
I bark out a laugh and lean back across the bar to sit back down on my stool.
“Good luck with that.”
His eyes darken to the point that even his goofy, crooked hat doesn’t look quite so funny anymore.
“Fucking try me,” he warns, his voice becoming a menacing growl.
Damn, if I had time to obsess over just one more psychopath, Mads might make the cut.
I’m tempted to push it. They know who my intruder is, and I’m not about to let him slip through my fingers that easily again.
I narrow my eyes and sit up a little straighter, but before I can try again with my demand for answers, a warm, soft leather grip slides up the back of my neck.
Goose bumps rise all over my skin and heat immediately fills my gut, spreading south to stiffen my cock and tighten around my balls.
“Making friends?” The deep, familiar voice that’s been haunting my thoughts for days whispers low in my ear, the hot flutter of his breath dancing over my skin.
Mads’s eyes move between me and the man standing behind me, my intruder, the ghost I never thought I’d find again.
“We good?” Mads quirks one eyebrow and reaches up to straighten his top hat.
“Yes,” I say gruffly.
“Good.” He looks past me again, focusing on the man whose grip on the back of my neck is making my cock throb and my insides melt like butter. “Keep it that way or the Red Queen will have your heads.”
He steps away to get back to his other customers, and I drag my gaze up to the hazy mirror behind the bar. He’s really there, his dark eyes fixed on mine in the reflection, the slightest smirk on his full lips.
“Funny running into you here, slut.”
GHOST
I can see the calculations happening behind his eyes.
He doesn’t want to admit that he came here based on a tip from a stranger on the internet, hoping to run into Wildcliff’s most notorious vigilante.
And I’m certainly not about to tell him that I orchestrated this whole thing, even if a part of me is dying to praise him for playing into my hands so beautifully, just like I knew he would.
I loosen my grip on the back of his neck, and there’s a flutter of disappointment on his face that I don’t think is just a trick of the lighting or the mirror.
He swivels on his stool to face me. It’s crowded enough that I have every excuse to stand close to him, to move into the space between his spread thighs and smell the faint scent of Scotch on his breath from the single sip he took and the hints of sandalwood in his cologne.
I don’t dream about alcohol the way I dream about meth.
No, I dream about it the way I dream about those groping, unwelcome hands on me, tangled up in the unwanted memory of the night I died.