Chapter 8
Eight
The low thrum of bass vibrated through the darkened velvet walls of The Rocks, its bass thumping like a heartbeat beneath the strobe lights.
Private booths lined the edges of the VIP lounge, cloaked in shadows and exclusivity.
Crystal fixtures cast flickering reflections over glass tables, and the smell of aged whiskey and designer perfume lingered in the air.
Nikos stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the subdued glow of the space. The Contessa sisters, Sherry and Sabrina, were curled up on either side of his brother like glossy bookends. Their long legs crossed, high heels dangling, lips redder than sin.
Both lit up when they saw him.
“Nikos!” Sabrina purred, sliding to her feet with a practiced sway of her hips. “We were just talking about you.”
“Of course you were,” he said, already weary. “Give us a moment, ladies.”
“But we were just getting started,” Sherry added, her lower lip jutting out in a pout that might have worked on lesser men.
Nikos lifted an eyebrow, sharp and unyielding.
The twins huffed in synchronized resignation, grabbed their handbags, and flounced off like offended swans. “Must be something in the air,” Sabrina muttered as they passed. “Looks like the Aeto brothers are both in a mood.”
Markos chuckled dryly and leaned back against the leather booth, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Thanks for driving away the piranhas. I was starting to feel like a snack.”
Nikos didn’t answer. He lifted a hand, signaling to the server for a double bourbon, then motioned to his bodyguards at the entrance. They nodded and repositioned: one outside the velvet rope, the other flanking the booth.
The crowd blurred behind a wash of smoke and dim lights, a living sea that Nikos no longer saw.
He sat heavily, tension still riding his shoulders.
“You gonna talk to me?” Markos asked after a beat, his brow lifted. “Or brood like some noir antihero with a vendetta.”
Nikos didn’t respond. His mind was stuck—caught in a strange mental skip like a record scratching over the same groove. The day replayed in fractured flashes: the paintball match, Kiki’s laughter, the scent of chocolate and spice, the way she moved.
And then… nothing.
He remembered walking her to the door.
But everything after that?
A blur.
A smear of light and sound with no edge or shape.
His drink arrived with a quiet clink. He stared at it as the seconds ticked by, his fingers resting on the base of the glass but not lifting it. His frown deepened as he watched the condensation slide down the sides.
“Nikos?”
His brother reached out and gave his arm a small shake.
He blinked. “What?”
Markos studied him, frowning now too. “You look like you’re in a daze. Did you hit your head or something?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. So, I’ll ask again. How’d the blind date go?”
Nikos picked up his glass and took a sip. The burn steadied him.
He frowned down at the table, watching the light from the floor dance across the surface. His date. The one he had been dreading.
“She surprised me,” he said quietly.
“Good surprise or bad?”
“Both.”
Markos lifted his eyebrow again but waited.
“She’s not what I expected,” Nikos continued. “She’s sharp, funny, and sarcastic as hell; and she’s got this way of… moving that is mesmerizing.”
“Huh,” Markos murmured, his voice holding a note of skepticism. “She sounds mysterious.”
“She’s incredible,” Nikos muttered.
“So, what did you two do? I believe you said she doesn’t go out at night.”
He chuckled, low and disbelieving. “We played paintball.”
“Paintball? Okay, I didn’t see that coming,” Markos muttered with a shake of his head. “Definitely not something the Contessa twins would suggest. Hell, I can’t think of a single woman we’ve ever dated who would volunteer to mess up their hair that way and get bruised.”
Nikos laughed again. “Like I said, she’s incredible.”
He shared their game. The strategy. How Kiki kept pace with him through the match like she’d choreographed the whole thing in advance.
“She’s got moves,” he said. “Like—genuine tactical moves that I’ve only ever seen in a war zone. Every turn, every duck, every shot—she wasn’t guessing. She was calculating. Predicting. Executing.”
Markos looked intrigued. “Military?”
“Yes—no,” Nikos said, but his tone held doubt.
“I don’t know. I don’t see how; she’s too young.
I’ve run live drills with black ops teams who didn’t move that clean.
I’ve trained with people who spent years in covert units.
Hell, we both have. I’m telling you—she moved like one of them—only better.
Like she knew ahead of time what they were going to do.
It doesn’t make any sense. Jose said she’s been playing there once a month for only a year.
Sometimes against entire teams—solo. And she wins. ”
Markos’s brow furrowed. “Do you think she learned how to move like that from paintball? Like an elite sport thing as a kid?”
“…No.” Nikos set down his glass, his fingers drumming against the table.
“There was a moment… I saw her face, and it was like she’d forgotten that it was a game.
And afterward, she wasn’t acting like she’d won a game.
She was… afraid, angry. I think she’s been afraid this whole time. She’s hiding something.”
The thought settled between them like a stone dropped into a still pond. Ripples of suspicion. Fascination. Worry.
Nikos stared into the swirling bourbon in his glass.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. He could taste her on his lips. Feel her in his arms. See her lying against that damn floral couch of hers. It was there, on the tip of his memory one moment and gone the next.
Something about Kiki Reese was carved from shadows. And she was hiding more than just a love of chocolate and tactical precision.
Much more.
The air in the VIP lounge felt thicker now, like it had turned to smoke. Nikos rolled the glass between his fingers, watching the amber liquid catch the light in fractured gold. Something was wrong. He could feel it, tightening in his chest like a vice.
Markos tilted his head. “So, how are you going to find out what she’s hiding?”
“I don’t know,” Nikos admitted. “It’s just a feeling. Like there’s this wall between us. She lets me get close, but then she pulls back.”
Markos shrugged. “She could be married. Or seeing someone. Hell, maybe she’s gay. It’s not exactly unheard of.”
“I asked her that,” Nikos said quickly—too quickly.
Markos’s brow rose. “And?”
Nikos’s frown deepened. He stared at his brother for a long beat before lowering his gaze to the swirling bourbon. “I think I asked her… but I can’t remember the answer.”
He searched his memory, trying to pinpoint the moment—but there was nothing. Just shadows. Smudged edges. A sense of having asked, but no anchor to prove it.
The heat in his chest shifted. Unease. No—something colder. Violation.
He downed the rest of his bourbon in one long swallow, the burn barely registering. Her scent lingered in his memory—something like cinnamon and cocoa and danger—and along with it came flashes.
Brief. Blistering.
Her hands were in his hair.
Her lips.
The weight of her legs locked around his waist.
Her back arched beneath him on that ridiculous floral couch.
And just as quickly, the images dissolved, then vanished like smoke through his fingers.
He clenched the empty glass.
He needed answers.
He needed to call Andri, see if he’d found anything else. He also wanted to talk to Kiki.
He slid to the edge of the booth, about to stand.
“Where are you going?” Markos’s hand landed on his arm.
Nikos hesitated. “I have to take care of something.”
Markos didn’t let go immediately. His eyes locked onto Nikos. “You sure you’re okay?”
Nikos nodded once. “Yeah.”
“If you need help—”
“I’ll ask,” Nikos cut in, soft but firm.
Markos studied him for a second longer, then released his grip. “Be careful.”
Nikos didn’t answer.
He stood and murmured to his bodyguard. The man gave a crisp nod and stepped away to summon the car.
As Nikos strode out of the lounge, the lights of The Rocks glittered around him and a hundred faceless strangers laughed and danced in slow motion. The music swelled, but it felt distant—muted beneath the roaring in his ears.
He didn’t know why he’d left Kiki tonight.
But she was under his skin. In his blood. And that—terrified him.
He was damn well going to find out why.
Jim climbed the stoop of the brownstone, cradling a brown paper grocery bag in his right arm. He pressed the code to unlock the front door, stepped inside the dim foyer, and paused to make sure the heavy door closed behind him.
A quick check of the mailbox showed Harvey must have already collected their mail. He turned and looked up as a movement in the stairwell caught his attention. A moment later, Kiki appeared. He smiled at her when she paused on the bottom step.
She looked even smaller than usual, her slender frame swallowed by an oversized black hoodie that hung nearly to her knees.
Her hands were tucked deep inside the front pockets as she murmured a quiet, “Hey,” in his direction, her voice barely cutting through the muffled sound of car tires against the pavement outside.
Jim frowned, concern settling in as he took a step closer. “Everything alright?” he asked, keeping his tone easy and light, even as a knot of worry twisted in his stomach.
“Yeah, just need to head out for a bit,” Kiki replied, avoiding his gaze, her eyes darting to the door as if the world outside held a secret calling.
There was always a flicker of apprehension about her when night fell, a trait he’d come to recognize. “Is there anything I can do?” he pressed, his tone softening. “You know how you get about going out after dark.”
She nodded, her hood casting shadows across her face. “It’s good. I just… need to pick up some feminine products. Ran out.”