Chapter 29
Harlow
The car is absurd.
LED lighting, a fully stocked minibar, and even a bowl of fresh fruit. I don’t dare ask how Sofia managed to commandeer one of my husband’s vehicles and have it outfitted like a five star lounge on wheels.
She pops open a bottle of tequila with a devilish glint in her eye.
“Let the night begin.”
Elena and I groan in unison.
“No way, Sofia. And starting with tequila? I’ll be drunk before we even arrive,” I remark.
“I’m not drinking,”
Elena says firmly.
“I’ll be the responsible one tonight, someone has to keep an eye on you two. You always manage to attract chaos.”
Sofia gasps, visibly affronted.
“How dare you. Girls’ night is for getting shamelessly drunk and making catastrophic decisions. That’s the whole point.”
“I was planning to sip an espresso martini and pass morally grey judgment on other people’s catastrophic decisions,” I reply.
Elena nods solemnly.
“And I intended to emotionally support Harlow in her dignified silence.”
Unfazed, Sofia begins pouring anyway.
“Not tonight. Tonight, we drink. We dance. I may kiss someone entirely inappropriate. Possibly throw a punch. There are no rules.”
I reach for the glass reluctantly.
“Fine,”
I sigh.
“One shot.”
Famous last words.
By the time we reach the club, none of us are particularly sober.
Sofia’s hair has abandoned its style. Elena’s eyeliner is smudged in a way that makes her look even more alluring. As for me, I feel light. Possibly too light.
The club pulses with sound, bass reverberating in the floors, lights flickering above us, bodies swaying in a rhythm that feels hypnotic.
At the velvet rope, the bouncer nods at our guards and steps aside, ushering us into the VIP section, a quieter, elevated space roped off from the chaos.
Just as we step in, Sofia whirls on the guards.
“Absolutely not. You’re not coming inside,”
she declares.
“Signorina,”
one replies, visibly uneasy.
“The boss ordered us not to let you out of sight.”
Sofia rolls her eyes, exasperated.
“No one’s in this room. Go sweep the area if you must, then wait outside the doors. Nothing happens without going through you.”
They hesitate, scanning the room. One by one, they check the perimeter, bathroom, back doors, behind the bar. Only when satisfied do they retreat, positioning themselves just outside.
As we settle onto the velvet seating, Sofia is already bouncing with energy.
“We need drinks.”
“I’m sure a server will be with us shortly,”
Elena mutters.
“We’ve been here thirty seconds.”
Sofia doesn’t hear, or more likely, ignores her. She disappears behind the bar, cheers quietly when she finds what she’s looking for, and returns triumphantly with a bottle and three crystal tumblers.
Not long after we raise our first shot, a man appears out of thin air, or perhaps we’re too tipsy to notice where he came from.
He’s in uniform, which suggests he’s our server.
Sofia dances like the room belongs to her, completely unaware of anything beyond the music.
The man approaches, his movements unhurried. He halts beside our table, close to Sofia. Then, without a word, his hand slips beneath his apron.
In a blur of motion, Sofia turns. A sharp, sickening crack follows as the tequila bottle from our table explodes against his skull.
He staggers, dazed, his hand still frozen halfway to his waistband.
“What the hell, Sofia?!”
I shout, staggering forward.
“I thought he was pulling a knife!”
“And how the fuck did you figure that?”
He sways, turning slightly, one hand lifting, probably to balance himself, but my tequila soaked brain interprets it as a threat. Instinct kicks in.
I grab the nearest glass and smash it into his temple.
Another crack.
The man drops to one knee.
And then, suddenly Elena slams her leg upward, driving it straight into his groin.
The man collapses. Unconscious.
We freeze, staring at the motionless body, then at the closed door, waiting to see if the men stationed outside heard the commotion. Once we are certain they didn’t.
Sofia speaks first, her eyes glassy, voice trembling.
“Oh my god,”
she breathes, hand to her mouth.
“We killed him. We’re fucking murderers. Orange is so not my fucking colour.”
“He’s breathing,”
Elena replies, bored.
“Just unconscious.”
“I’m not convinced,”
Sofia mutters, crouching slightly.
“He’s very still. We can’t just leave him on the floor.”
I hiss, the room still tilting around me.
“And what do you suggest we do, Sofia?”
Elena gestures vaguely at the man’s body.
“Call a doctor. He has head trauma. Obviously.”
Before I can respond, Sofia’s already grabbed one of his legs.
“Help me,”
she snaps.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Relocating him, somewhere. A staff room, perhaps. I’m not certain!”
“You think that’ll fix it?”
“I don’t know!”
she hisses.
“But we can’t just leave him here. And you struck him as well!”
“I was defending you!”
“You aimed directly for his temple!”
“He was advancing on you!”
Elena lets out a loud sigh.
With liquor still dulling my senses, I stagger over and grab the man’s other leg. He weighs a fucking ton.
Elena folds her arms, watching us with the expression of someone reconsidering all her life choices.
I open my mouth to ask where, exactly, we’re dragging him, right as the VIP back door slams open.
A bouncer steps inside, his frame massive, his expression mean, and very much not amused. Rage gleams in his eyes. He speaks into the mic on his collar.
“VIP lounge. I’ve got the assaulters. Bring medics for the victim. Police are downstairs.”
“Assault?”
Sofia gasps.
“It was a misunderstanding!”
Another bouncer enters and grabs Elena’s arm.
She twists away instantly.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
“We didn’t do anything!”
Sofia yells, still gripping the man’s leg.
“Oh my god, let go of the body,” I hiss.
“You said he’s not dead, why the fuck are you calling him a body?”
she snaps back.
They march us out the rear door, down a dim corridor lined with crates and flickering lights. The place is deserted, no staff, no noise, nothing but silence. No one sees. No one hears anything.
Only once we’re outside do I hear, shouts, footsteps, the sharp crack of something metal hitting concrete. I glance just in time to see Dante’s men break into chaos, weapons drawn, shouting at one of the bouncers.
They’re too late. We’re already being shoved into the back of a police car, the door slamming shut behind us. Tires screech against the pavement as the car pulls away.
Now we sit in a holding cell, the fluorescent lights humming above, casting everything in a pallid glow. The air reeks. The beds are an affront, thin metal frames, a thin sheet pretending to be a mattress. They slammed the bars shut like we were feral, and no one has returned since.
I nearly kneed one of the officers in the groin earlier. Held myself back by inches. But the man was an ass.
Elena sits on the edge of the bed, arms crossed. Sofia’s lying flat on the concrete floor like she’s some tragic heroine of injustice. I lie on the so called bed, staring at the ceiling.
The alcohol still courses through me, a low persistent thrum that makes my head spin. I try to will it away, but it lingers, unwelcomed.
“You know,”
Sofia breaks the silence.
“this isn’t the worst cell I’ve been in.”
I blink.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“She got arrested in Paris,”
Elena says dryly.
“She climbed a statue.”
“It was artistic expression,”
Sofia insists.
“You were naked.”
“There was a full moon. It felt poetic.”
“I need you both to stop talking,”
I mutter, pressing a hand to my forehead.
And then it hits me, a single thought that sends the blood rushing from my face.
Oh, fuck.
My husband is going to go ballistic.