6. Cassidy
SIX
CASSIDY
A fucking Miami club. Really, Binx?
This place is a neon-drenched hellhole. The bass shakes the walls, rattles the floor under my boots, and pounds against my skull like a goddamn war drum.
Strobe lights slice through the air, flashing red, blue, white.
Sweat and spilled liquor stain the air. Every inch of this place is soaked in desperation.
And I don’t give a fuck about any of it.
But I have to, because she’s here.
I lean back in my booth, stretching my legs under the table, letting the overpriced bourbon burn slowly down my throat. Neat. Top shelf.
I paid for it the same way I’ve been paying for everything since I walked out of that concrete box at seventeen—with someone else’s name, someone else’s money. A stolen identity, a few well-placed transactions, and suddenly, I’m Harold Mendoza, a very wealthy, very generous VIP guest for the night.
Good old Harold has no idea I exist, but his bank account sure does .
I swirl the bourbon in my glass, watching her.
Bindi moves through the club like sin wrapped in silk, slipping between bodies in a tight little black dress that clings to her like a second skin, with a plunging neckline, daring men to take a look. And they do.
The sight of them looking at her makes my vision turn red.
Her hair, a wild, messy mass of red, is piled up high on her head, but loose strands have fallen, framing her face, brushing against her bare shoulders.
The club lights hit just right, tracing over her collarbones, over the freckles scattered like constellations across her skin.
I let my gaze roam lower, to the dip of her waist, the soft curve of her thighs.
She’s still so fucking small. Petite. Fragile. But only in body, never in spirit.
That fire inside her? It never went out. I would’ve felt it if it had.
She’s smiling—flashing teeth, playing the part. She lets men think she’s theirs for the night. Lets them believe that if they throw down enough cash, she’ll want them.
I tip my glass back, let the burn settle in my stomach, and try to remember why I came here to watch, not to act.
Then I see him.
Jordyn Hale.
Ex-military. Club security. And Bindi’s fucking lover.
I already know who he is—know that he works for Dimitri Santoro, Miami’s biggest kingpin. The kind of man who collects people like Bindi and doesn’t let them go. Jordyn is his loyal little lapdog, but that’s not why I want to rip his throat out.
It’s because of the way she looks at him. He doesn’t deserve an ounce of her attention. He deserves to have his entrails pouring out across the floor for even breathing the same air as her .
Bindi shimmies up to him, half shouting something. He lifts his thumb up to her lip and fixes her red lipstick.
I change my previous statement, his entrails being smeared across the club floor wouldn’t be fitting.
I want to rip his eyeballs out and then cut off his fingers and put them in his eye sockets.
Who the fuck does he think he is, looking at my girl, nonetheless touching her.
Then he leans in and whispers something in her ear and she laughs.
Not that fake shit I’ve watched her give customers all night. This one is a real laugh. One that is imprinted on my soul.
I set my glass down carefully, flexing my fingers, curling them into fists against my thighs. She doesn’t know I’m here—doesn’t know I’m watching. Doesn’t know that I’ve spent every fucking day picturing her face, memorizing her, holding onto her like she was the last real thing in my world.
So I can’t be mad at her for acting like I never fucking existed. The lights flash red, and for a second, I imagine how his throat would feel under my hands. How easily it would snap, how fast the blood would drain from his face. How, maybe then, she’ll finally fucking remember who she belongs to.
Breathe, Cass. Jesus fuck.
But what if I walked up to her right now?
I wonder how many seconds it would take her to realize that it’s me.
Would her body react before her mind could fully process what she was seeing?
Would she feel fear or relief first? Or would she run away from me again?
Try to fight? Or would she finally stop pretending that I haven’t been inside her head this whole fucking time.
I swallow back the urge. Not yet.
The night drags on, and I stay put, nursing my drink, burning a hole into the back of her skull with my eyes.
Bindi keeps working the floor, floating between VIP tables, laughing at jokes that aren’t funny, touching hands that don’t deserve it.
Now and then, Jordyn glances at her from his post leading up to the VIP section.
If he’s here working it means that Dimitri is here, which is even more of a reason not to cause a scene.
Everyone knows who the Santoro family is—another reason to get Bindi out of here.
She doesn’t need to be associating herself with someone that could very well get her killed.
And then, just when I think I can’t take another second of this bullshit, she turns and her eyes flick to mine.
I go still.
It’s quick, barely a glance. She doesn’t realize what she’s looking at, but for one second—one breath—she looks right at me. As quick as she looks at me, she turns away and continues to move through the crowd again, disappearing.
Did she see me? My teeth clench so tight my jaw aches. She has to have seen me, right? I’ve been here. I’ve been watching her all fucking night. I take another sip of bourbon and force myself to breathe.
I’ll reunite with her soon. It doesn’t have to be rushed. I’ve waited years. What’s a little longer?