4
Luna
The moment I step into the Enigma’s entryway, my nose wrinkles at the smell of stale beer and damp carpet. The faint stickiness under my heels makes me reconsider every step. Geez.
I remove my ATM card from my purse and crouch to slide it into the hidden compartment in the platform of my trusty clubbing boot—a little Parisian trick Reese and I came up with for nights like this, when we slum it up. You never know when you’ll get swiped—or become too shitfaced to remember your purse.
Straightening, I catch sight of myself in the gilded mirror hanging crooked on the wall. The glass is smudged and cracked, but it reflects enough. I fluff out my waves and smooth a hand over the strapless Chanel, loving the way the sleek black material hugs the dip of my waist before flaring just below my hips.
A drunk girl stumbles out of the club, her stained tank top sliding off one shoulder. I glance back at my smoky eyes and re d lips and, for a second, wonder if I might be overdressed for a dump like this. But the thought passes just as quickly. I never blend in anyway.
With one last look in the mirror, I push through the double doors into the main room.
Red and blue lights flicker overhead, making me squint as I scan the crowd. There, near the back, in one of the deep velvet booths, is a blonde bombshell draped in a red dress, her skin glowing golden under the lights.
Delilah.
There’s an attractive man sitting next to her, young, late twenties maybe.
A smile splits my face. Next to her, I’m so not overdressed.
She beams when she sees me, waving a hand to join them.
“Dels.” I lean in to air-kiss both cheeks before sliding in next to her. “You look like a sin I’m dying to commit.”
Delilah’s laugh is throaty and a little too loud. “Oh honey, you’re not too bad yourself.”
She gestures to her companion. “Luna, this is Eduardo. He’s an art collector.”
I offer my hand with a polite smile. He takes my proffered hand, holding it longer than necessary and flashing me a slow, appreciative smile that’s supposed to melt me.
I settle into the booth beside Delilah and whisper, “Client?”
Delilah’s eyes twinkle as she replies into her drink. “Just old friends, I promise.”
Over the next half hour, Eduardo makes his interest clear with lingering glances and effortless, suggestive charm. I flirt back out of habit.
When he leaves to get drinks from the bar, Delilah turns to me. “Luna, stop leading the guy on. We both know you’re not intere sted.”
“Who says I’m not?”
Delilah arches a perfectly plucked brow. “Please. Not unless they bring something to the Guilty Pleasures table, you never bite.”
I find her straight-talking refreshing. “So, I prefer to kill a few birds with one stone. Shoot me.”
She grins, shaking her head, then says something, but I can no longer focus. A sudden chill crawls up my spine, along with the unshakeable feeling of being watched.
I turn my head, my gaze drifting across the crowded room. And then I see him.
Seated in the shadows, a glass of something dark cradled in his large hands, is a man who looks like he could snap a person in half.
He’s massive, even sitting down. Broad shoulders, tattoos snaking up the back of his hands and disappearing under the sleeves of an expensive black leather jacket only to reappear at his neck. Dark blond hair, tousled in a way that makes you want to reach out and touch it, and a five o’clock shadow covering a jaw that looks sharp enough to cut glass.
But it’s his eyes that stop me cold. Icy. Unyielding. They’re like twin barrels of a loaded gun, pointing right at me.
My breath catches in my throat as I meet his gaze. There’s something dangerous about him, something controlled—like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike—and I can’t look away.
“Dels,” I whisper. “Who the hell is that?”
Delilah follows the direction of my gaze, and her face instantly tightens. “Oh, him? That’s Rocky Savage. He’s bad news. Like kick-off-your-heels-and-run kind of bad news.”
Rocky Savage.
The name sounds all wrong. Like a WWE wrestler, not the coiled spring of a man sitting across the room, radiating a force field of energy.
“Mon Dieu, il fait chaud.” The French slips out before I realize it, and I quickly translate. “He’s hot.”
“Oh oui,” Delilah snorts, her French thoroughly butchered. “He’s like a bonfire you want to dive into. But if you’re smart, you’ll stop staring.”
“Why?” I look away, but the pull of his gaze is impossible to ignore.
Delilah’s voice is sharper now. “Because he’s not interested in you.”
“What do you mean? He’s gawking at me like I’m his main course.”
Delilah leans closer and whispers, “His tastes run a little . . . different.”
I blink in disbelief. “Wait. He’s gay?”
Delilah shrugs. “Let’s just say I’ve seen him around. And it wasn’t with a woman. Or with one person at a time.”
Wow, Luna. He’s so far out of your league, it’s not even funny.
Suddenly, the man tears his gaze away from me and starts to talk to the slick-haired guy next to him, not sparing me another glance.
Inexplicably, it feels like a cold rebuff. How can he stare at me like a starving man, then dismiss me completely in the next moment? He has to be doing it on purpose.
“He’s not giving gay vibes, Dels.”
“Trust me. That’s how he stares. Creepy as fuck.”
I tilt my head to observe him. “Hmm. I wouldn’t call him creepy per se.”
“ No? What would you call assessing merchandise, then?”
I whip my head to Delilah. “What are you talking about?”
Delilah leans in again. “He’s a trafficker. That guy he’s talking to? His name is Hector. They’ve been in the game for years.”
My stomach lurches with a wave of nausea, but it’s followed by something I don’t want to acknowledge. A spark of excitement—the kind that only comes when you’re playing with fire. It’s the same thrill I get from watching horror movies, playing dangerous games, and generally doing anything forbidden.
Before he was killed, Uncle Pascal used to dabble in the flesh business—a banned venture in the Chicago Outfit—but I never met a dealer up close. I always imagined traffickers would look slimy, like the earth scum they are. Not like . . . him.
Hell, this man wouldn’t have to kidnap me. I’d gladly follow him down a dark alley.
Before I can spiral any further, Eduardo returns with drinks. I smile and take the glass from him, but my mind is still on the man across the room. Rocky hasn’t looked back at me since, but hell if I’ll let him dismiss me so easily.
“Eduardo,” I ignore the drink and say with a sultry smile, “let’s dance.”
He beams, takes my hand, and leads me to the dance floor. As the music pulses through me, I turn my back to him, letting the rhythm take over. My hips dip and roll with deliberate precision, each bounce perfectly timed to the beat. Then, dropping low, I arch my back and let my body do the talking.
Eduardo’s gaze heats as his hands slide over my hips. is movements follow mine as if he can keep up.
But I’m not dancing for Eduardo.
I glance over my shoulder, easily catching Hector’s eye but not Rocky’s. It’s as if he’s trying not to look at me. But I know it’s only a matter of time. He’ll cave.
They always do.