Chapter four
Ameena swings her car into the parking lot of Seduction, the club she swears is the place to be in New York right now. The neon-red sign pulses like a heartbeat against the dark sky, and the bass from inside thrums through the pavement.
We ditch our coats in the backseat and step out, the cold night air biting at our bare skin. My heels click sharply against the concrete with each step, a rhythmic counter to the distant music.
Then I see it—the line.
A longqueue of partygoers, shifting impatiently, their breath rising in white clouds. No fucking way.
"Ameena, I'm not waiting in that," I announce, exasperated.
She merely giggles, sliding a pair of sleek black sunglasses into my hands.
"Don't be ridiculous, put these on. We don't have to wait in line. Paparazzi might be lurking." She winks, "Now, after you, princess."
Rolling my eyes, I slip the glasses on and strut past the crowd. A chorus of annoyed protests follows, but I ignore them.
A burly security guard steps forward to block my path. Unfazed, I lower the sunglasses just enough for him to get a clear look at my face.
Recognition dawns instantly.
"Miss Castillo," he greets, a forced smile tugging at his lips as he pulls open the door, "welcome."
I waltz inside with Ameena on my heels, the thick scent of sweat, perfume, and alcohol wrapping around me like a second skin.
The club is alive.
Bodies press together on the dance floor, rolling and grinding to the heavy bass. Flashes of neon paint the room in electric blues and purples, and the air vibrates with laughter, clinking glasses, and music turned up to an almost unbearable volume.
My gaze sweeps the club until it lands on the bar—my new found sanctuary.
I weave my way through the throng, Ameena close behind, and slide onto a barstool.
"Two Grenadian Rums," I call to the bartender.
He raises a brow, amused, "Trying to forget something, love?"
"I'm trying to forget everything." I rest my elbow on the counter, "Add some Sangrita shots and an extra rum too."
He lets out a low chuckle but doesn't argue. The second the ten shots hit the counter, I knock them all back in rapid succession, the burn a fiery kiss down my throat.
Ameena's eyes widen, "Holy shit—"
"You better slow down, little lady," the bartender warns, watching me with intrigue, "My boss is here tonight. He's... not someone you wanna be reckless around."
I shrug him off, already sipping my rum. The drink is sweet and strong, the taste lingering like a sugar rush.
Ameena takes a sip of hers and immediately grimaces, slamming it back onto the counter.
"That shit is disgusting."
She flags the bartender down for a beer instead. For a while, we drink and chat—avoiding the one topic I refuse to discuss.
My impending marriage.
The mere thought makes my stomach turn, so I drown it in alcohol.
"Let's go dance!" I slur, pushing up from the stool, only to stumble immediately. My world tilts—but before I can hit the ground, strong arms catch me.
The scent of expensive cologne—dark, rich, intoxicating—invades my senses. I know that scent.
Shaking off the dizziness, I push away from my saviour without looking up, my focus already back on Ameena. I grab her hand and drag her toward the dance floor, ignoring the stranger entirely.
The music takes over, pulsating through my veins.
Ameena and I move like we own the space, spinning, laughing, our bodies twisting and turning with the rhythm. The alcohol makes me weightless, stripping away the burdens of who I'm supposed to be. No mafia ties. No reputation to uphold. No future I didn't choose.
Just me. Alexa Rayne Castillo.
And for once, I feel free, just like the koi in the pond.
Until I crash into someone.
The woman turns with a glare, eyes flashing with irritation. I beam sheepishly, "Oops. Sorry!"
"Be careful," Ameena giggles in my ear, but I barely register her warning.
The woman's expression hardens, venom dripping from her voice, "You'll regret that, you whore."
My drunken brain takes a second to catch up. Then I blink at her, unfazed.
"Probably." I giggle, "But I'm not a whore."
She scoffs, taking a step closer, and suddenly, I feel him before I even see him.
The same scent from earlier.
Dark. Familiar. Dangerous.
Then a shadow looms over me, and I know before I even look.
Vincenzo.
My stomach drops.
His cold gaze meets mine, intense and unwavering. I glare right back.
"Oh, great. It's you," I sneer, turning to leave- only for him to seize my wrist and yank me against him, firm and unyielding.
"I apologize for my fiancée." He doesn't even look at me, his words directed at the woman instead, "She doesn't seem to know when to stop drinking."
My jaw drops.
Oh, fuck you.
Ignoring him, I throw myself to the floor to take my stupidly high heels off before I fall on my face on my run away from him. Dramatic? Maybe. But I'm tired and these damn heels are going to ruin my great escape.
With a huff, I yank them off and pass them to Ameena, whose entire demeanour has shifted at Vincenzo's arrival.
It's too damn hot in here. My faux leather corset top clings to me, suffocating. I start tugging at it, desperate for relief, when I feel a weighty stare burning into me.
I snap my gaze up.
Vincenzo.
I glare. "What the fuck are you looking at?"
"I'm not doing anything," he says smoothly, raising his hands, "you're the one who's drunk off your ass."
Ignoring him, I scan the room. The crowd has thinned—no, been thinned. His men are ushering people out, clearing the space.
Paranoia spikes.
Then I look at the man beside Vincenzo- someone familiar- but my sluggish mind can't quite place him.
Hushed words are being shared between them and I see my opportunity to escape.
Abandoning my heels entirely, I move to all fours and begin crawling toward the exit. Graceful? Not at all. Effective? We'll see.
I feel eyes on me—probably flashing my thong to half the club—but at this point? Don't care.
Getting to the exit is a lot harder than I am expecting, thanks to the clubbing attire Ameena stuffed me into but I keep preserving. I am within touching distance when a pair of legs step into my path.
Dammit, so close.
Without warning, he throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
I shriek, smacking his back. "HEY—"
"Shut up," he growls, one hand gripping my ass to keep my skirt in place. "When we get back to the hotel, I'm handcuffing you to the bed."
"Ohhh, kinky," I tease, waving lazily at the few remaining clubgoers as he storms out.
Whoops.
I can practically see his jaw ticking, the thought turns one side of my lips up into a smirk and I decide to really commit to annoying him as if that will make me feel better after he tore my life apart and then insinuated I was a whore.
"Do I make you horny, baby?" I sing, giggling manically at the ironic song choice, waggling my brows, although he can't see my face.
That does it.