Salvatore

1. Ivy

1

IVY

There’s something about loud music and free-flowing booze that heats my bloodstream and puts me into a superior state of mind. Tonight is different though. Weird, actually.

Typically, I wouldn’t be enjoying myself while my best friend’s dad, Carlo Pelosi—who also happens to be my boss—is at home deteriorating from cancer.

But here I am at Smoke & Mirrors, a place owned by someone rumored to be Italian mafia royalty. A place nobody with a fully functioning sense of self-preservation should be anywhere near, let alone me, who happens to be shaking my Latina ass across the dance floor.

“ Who wants another drink ?” I shout over the ridiculously loud music, my arm raised as I wiggle my plastic VIP band in the air at my friends.

Both my work besties nod with enthusiasm.

Yet again, it’s surprising.

Not so much from Allison. She’s a dedicated wing-woman, always eager to live the night life.

It’s Olivia’s response that doesn’t track.

My flabbers are well and truly gasted, not only because she’s giving me two thumbs up while dancing like no one’s watching, but she actually seems to be enjoying herself. There’s a glow to her. An exuberance I’m not used to.

The poor girl usually has a toxic level of introversion clogging her veins. Not to mention the melancholy that’s recently plagued her.

Carlo’s health crisis has hit us hard.

He’s a great man. The GOAT of bosses. The epitome of male leadership, friendship, and all the other important ships we women hope to find in an employer.

But he’s also Olivia’s dad.

Her rock.

Her only surviving parent after her mom passed away years ago from the same insidious disease currently digging its claws into her father.

“ Make them doubles ,” Allison screams over the cacophony.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this. Carlo’s struggling and we’re at a cesspool criminal nightclub. But here I am, grinning at my friends as I shout, “ I’ll be back soon .”

I turn on my three-inch heels and set out in search of liquid sustenance.

The club isn’t crowded. It’s still too early.

There’s a comfortable amount of people on the dance floor and a small huddle around the closest bar, but given the plastic band on my wrist arranged by Carlo, I plan to indulge in my VIP status.

Men call out to me as I escape the dance floor.

“ Hey, Ivy, ” a blond Aussie surfer-type yells.

“ Where are you going? ” a Henry Cavill lookalike asks.

“ Wait, let me buy you a drink, ” a previous conquest calls out.

Another guy gently grabs my wrist as I pass and gives me a wink.

I don’t mind the contact. In fact, the attention is why I used to live for the weekends prior to Carlo’s diagnosis. But tonight isn’t about me.

“I’m sorry.” I hold up my hands in apology, sly grin beaming as I walk backwards away from them. “It’s girls’ night. No bros allowed.”

The gaggle visibly sadden, shoulders slumping, faces falling.

I’d laugh if a small part of me didn’t feel the same disappointment.

Okay , so it’s not a small part—the empty hole inside my chest is relatively huge.

I can admit I’m lonely. When the entirety of your life revolves around the tiniest of friend groups and the constant malaise of death, you tend to grasp for the thrill of attention wherever you can.

“Maybe next time.” I give a seductive finger-wave then turn for the entry to the VIP area guarded by a mountain-man of a bouncer.

I’m four steps from entering the exclusivity zone when a guy sidesteps into my path, his familiar smile warm and welcoming. “Hey, pretty lady.”

“Hey…” I hide a cringe at my mental blank.

I know this guy. Intimately . Yet I’m currently as familiar with his name as I am with the periodic table.

Jason? Jacob? Josh?

Shit.

“I haven’t seen you in a while.” His hungry blue eyes lower, taking in my tight black halter-neck body-con dress before he returns his attention to my face. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I raise my wrist, showing the VIP band. “No, thanks. Drinks are on the house tonight.” I also don’t double dip where men are concerned.

He raises his brows. “Nice. How did you score that?”

“My boss.” I shrug, stepping around him. “It was great to see you.”

“Don’t go.” He grabs my waist, gently tugging me toward him. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we hooked up. I can’t believe I never asked for your number.”

I smirk at the lie. “You did ask for my number, and I told you I never give it out.”

He frowns. “I thought I dreamt that part. Remind me again why you have that rule.”

“It’s a safety thing.” His safety. Not mine.

He nods, seeming to ponder this with exaggeration. “Well, it’s going to be difficult starting a life together when I can’t call or text, but I’m sure we’ll make it work.”

I choke on a chuckle and palm his wrists, guiding his hands off of me. “I’m sorry to break the bad news, but my heart belongs to Jesus.”

He snickers. “Damn. Why didn’t you tell me before I fell in love?”

“If memory serves, I’m pretty sure I called his name a few times while we were together.” Once on the sofa. Numerous times in his shower. Then again during the finale while pressed against his apartment door before I left.

James or Jesse or Joel throws his head back with a laugh, my craft of articulating a smooth rejection gaining yet another five-star rating.

He jerks his chin at me in the subtlest of fond farewells. “It was good seeing you.”

“You, too.” I blow him a kiss and eat up the space between me and the VIP bouncer. I flash the big guy my wristband then continue into the cordoned off area.

I walk by empty booths and cabanas shielded by deep purple curtains.

There’s an alcove leading to toilets on my left but it’s the bar straight ahead that I gravitate toward.

Two bottle-service girls are lined up behind the counter as the male bartender greets me with an approving glance. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

I nod and wait while he raises two bright orange drinks in tumblers and places them atop one woman’s tray, then hauls a bottle of champagne from a fridge below the counter to give to the remaining staff member. Both females in their black miniskirts and low-cut tops walk away, leaving me the sole patron of the bartender’s attention.

“You know you can order drinks at your booth, right?” the guy asks. “You just have to scan the barcode on the table and we’ll bring them out.”

“I didn’t know, so thanks. But me and my friends are on the dance floor, which is why I’m here.”

He nods, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into the waistband of his dark stonewashed jeans. “What can I get you?”

“Three Bay Breezes, extra strong, please.”

“No problem.”

I tap my foot along to the pounding music and admire the black gloss on matte black manicure I gave myself last night while he prepares the drinks. One day I’ll have the funds to pay someone else to finesse my nails so my right hand isn’t slightly mangled in comparison to my left. However, until that day, I’ll have to make do with my amateur ass.

I’m still admiring the shiny tips of my nails when someone walks up behind me, the taller, broader frame dominating my periphery just over my right shoulder.

I don’t avert my gaze from my hand, but that doesn’t stop me from determining that the newcomer is male. Everything about him is dark— hair, stubble, suit.

“Are you after the usual, sir?” the bartender asks as he pours vodka into three tumblers.

“Make it a double,” the stranger responds, his deep, smooth voice carrying low-key commanding confidence.

I drop my hand to my side and ignore the hum of interest that niggles in my belly.

Don’t even think about it .

This is girls’ night.

And besides, I don’t do dark features.

The man over my shoulder inches closer, his increased proximity infiltrating my lungs in earthy hints of patchouli and sandalwood.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a Bay Breeze kind of woman,” he says close enough to bespell my skin in a wash of goose bumps.

I avert my gaze to the colorful array of bottles behind the bar, casting the temptation out of my periphery.

It’s girls’ night.

Liv’s night.

Distracting my best friend from her sorrows trumps getting laid… but there’s no need to be rude.

“And what kind of woman would you take me for?” I ask.

“I would’ve picked a French martini.”

I raise a brow, appreciating his choice as my attention remains fixed on Mr. Johnny Walker on the second shelf. “And why is that?”

“It’s sophisticated, embodies elegance, and is far more intoxicating than a Bay Breeze.”

I roll my eyes and force my mouth to remain shut as my sex-starved heart thuds an extra beat.

Girls’ night.

Liv’s night.

“I’m not trying to hit on you,” he drawls, all growly and overly masculine. “Just making an observation.”

I scoff. “Of course.”

The slightest hint of his breathy snicker tickles my neck, the resulting tingles infiltrating my limbs. “If that sounded like a pick-up line I can’t help feeling secondhand embarrassment for the guys who’ve attempted to seduce you in the past.”

Secondhand embarrassment is definitely a common occurrence. It’s hard to find confident men who can actually pull off the personality trait without seeming douchey. But when the planets align and a beacon of testosterone-fueled self-assurance does gift me with his presence I’m always tempted to reach for something more than a one-night stand, and there’s no room for that in my life.

I need to stick to the fumbling, bumbling blonds with blue eyes.

Arrogant assholes with dark features are like catnip sent straight from Satan.

And yet here I am, unable to quit engaging. “Out of curiosity, if seduction was the aim, what would be your pick-up line?”

He leans closer, the heat of his lips casting warmth over the shell of my ear. “I don’t pick up, sweetheart. I pin down.”

Holy goddamn shit.

I swallow over the ache consuming my throat. Who the hell is this guy?

No. Scratch that.

I don’t want to know.

It’s. Girls’. Night. Pull your dick-hungry head out of the gutter, Ivy.

The cocky dreamboat steps around me to the bar, giving me his back.

I succumb a little and shift my gaze, admiring the sharp fade of his dark hair around the sides, the lengths on top longer, tousled, with a slight wave.

What would it feel like to run my fingers through that inky darkness? To drag my nails over his scalp?

Ivy Rosa Diaz. Focus.

“Your drinks, ma’am.” The bartender places three Bay Breeze tumblers on the polished wood counter beside the mountain of temptation.

I keep my calm, my cool, and glide forward, placing my clutch under my elbow before grabbing the glasses in a two-palmed grip.

“Do you need a hand?” Mr. Pin-down asks.

“No.” I refrain from glancing at him. “Thanks.”

If he’s not my type it will ruin the X-rated fantasy that’s about to warm my lonely nights. And if he’s everything my imagination has ever dreamed of—ruggedly handsome, strong jawline, sinful lips, with dark, devilish eyes—I’m far better not testing the limits of my restraint.

“Have a great night.” I walk away, head high, shoulders straight… libido crushed and whimpering.

Catcalls from faceless men follow me as I leave the sanctuary of the VIP area.

“ Nice dress. ”

“ What’s your name? ”

“ Do you work at Subway? ”

I pause at that last one, interested to hear where the unusual pick-up line will lead. The guy stands on the edge of the dance floor in cargo shorts and a white T-shirt with Good Vibes Only printed on the front. I’m pretty sure the quote is a sarcastic gesture because the sterile look in his eyes is another reason why women would choose the bear in the woods.

“ Because you just gave me a footlong ,” he yells over the music, his smirk unapologetic.

I cringe and walk past him. “I suggest learning how to talk to a lady if you ever want to sleep with one.”

“The last thing anyone would call you is a lady,” he snaps. “From what I’m told you’re the Baltimore bike.”

Shock renders me immobile. My body responds as if I’m under attack, but instead of fight or flight my options are rage or retribution.

I turn to the asshole, my smile more venom than vibrant. “And I bet it stings that even the town bike won’t lay a finger on you.”