Freak on a Leash (Feral Hearts #2)

Section 4

Hell Has No Dress-Code

Gia

I enter Hell. Well, technically it’s called “Red,” but I wanted Hell. Big letters. Red neon. No ambiguity.

The city of Chicago said no.

Apparently Hell was “religiously antagonistic,” “a public nuisance,” and “likely to encourage moral decline.” Which, frankly, felt insulting considering everything else they approve.

So: Red.

Same fire. Better lawyers.

It’s three in the afternoon, and the place looks naked. No bass rattling my ribs, no bad decisions being made in dark corners. Just polished concrete, chrome railings, and a bar that cost more than my first apartment.

Unlike people, it has never judged me.

I lean against it, cigarette between my fingers, and watch my staff move like ants with clipboards.

This is the clean side of my business.

Which means: no guns or blood, and absolutely no one admitting they work for me because they’re scared of me.

They say things like crowd control and security logistics and I did three years at a nightclub in River North.

Cute.

Sylvie Hart perches on a barstool nearby, coffee in hand, leg bouncing slightly. She’s trying very hard to look like a civilian.

It’s not working. Her eyes keep flicking to the doors, and there’s almost a visual overlay of her calculating her exits.

I like her.

“I love your nails,” she says, nodding toward my cigarette.

I don’t look down. “Thanks. It’s the blood of my enemies.”

“Oh.”

She recoils like I just hissed.

“No,” I add, after letting that hang for exactly one second. “That’s just the name of the polish.”

She blinks. “Oh.”

I hum. “Although… using actual enemies would save me a fortune on manicures.”

Sylvie laughs once, too sharp and too fast, then stops.

“…You’re joking.”

I tilt my head. “Mostly.” Ash tumbles down from my cigarette onto the tray.

Sylvie takes a careful sip of coffee. “Right. Good. Cool. Love that for you.”

“You ever get your nails done?”

“No,” she says immediately.

Smart girl.

One finger has a permanent bend, like a claw, after Valenti tortured her. She didn’t just survive. She escaped armed only with chopsticks and wasabi. Then she shot Valenti right in the face, which is delicious icing on the blood-splattered cake.

Movement at the door draws both our attentions. Men filter in one by one, resumes in hand, shoulders squared. Prospective security.

“Showtime,” I sigh.

Sylvie slides off the stool. “I should probably—”

“You should absolutely stay,” I tell her. “This is educational.”

The first guy sits across from me. Mid-twenties. Too eager. Smells like protein powder and what I can only guess is his mom’s laundry detergent.

The second one is somehow worse.

“Who did you work for last?”

He names a club I shut down indirectly two years ago.

I smile. “You’re fired.”

“I haven’t been hired yet.”

“Preemptively,” I clarify.

By the seventh, I’m bored.

Sylvie watches with wide eyes.

“You’re… very decisive,” she says quietly.

“I don’t hire potential,” I reply. “I hire certainty.”

The door opens again.

This time it’s Dante Lussari.

Tall. Dressed like he’s allergic to casual wear. He doesn’t need to scan the room, because the room adjusted to him the second he walked in. Pretentious mobster.

Sylvie lights up like she’s been plugged back into a power source. He, meanwhile, looks at her like the rest of the world is a mild inconvenience.

I wrinkle my nose. “If I ever look at someone like that,” I say aloud, “shoot me.”

Sylvie chokes on her coffee.

Dante gives me a look. “Good to see you too, Gia.”

“Debatable.”

He takes Sylvie’s hand. She squeezes back, grounding herself without realizing it.

Ugh.

Love is a biohazard.

They head for the door. Sylvie waves.

“Good luck,” she says.

“I don’t need luck,” I tell her. “I have standards.”

The door closes.

I turn back to my clipboard.

“Next,” I say.

The door opens again.

This time, the man who walks in is wearing a helmet.

A full-face motorcycle helmet, matte black, scuffed like it’s been dropped, dragged, and possibly used to headbutt fate. Visor down. Leather jacket. Boots that have definitely kicked in doors.

He pauses just inside the threshold, like he’s giving the room a second to get used to him.

The room does not.

I sit a little straighter.

He lifts one gloved hand in a little wave.

“Hi,” he says, voice warm and bright and wildly wrong for the visual. “Sorry I’m late. I got turned around.”

I glance at the clipboard. “This is a job interview.”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Correct.”

“You’re wearing a helmet.”

“Uh-huh.” He hops onto the intentionally uncomfortable chair and mounts it as a throne.

“For nightclub security.”

“Yup.”

I wait.

He waits back.

The confidence is… unsettling. Most people fill the silence with unnecessary babble. This weirdo does not. He looks genuinely pleased to be here, like he wandered into chaos and decided it looked fun.

“You know we do background checks,” I say.

He nods enthusiastically. “Big fan.”

“And you still showed up like this.”

“Well,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, posture loose. “I figured if I started by lying, you’d smell it on me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not literally,” he clarifies quickly. “I mean, unless you do smell lies. Some people can. Dogs. Babies. You seem like you might.”

I stare at him.

He tilts his helmeted head. “Is this where I talk about my strengths?”

I glance down at the clipboard, then back up at him.

“Take off the helmet,” I say.

He freezes for half a second.

“I’d rather not.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“I know.” He nods again, still upbeat. “I just wanted to be transparent about refusing.”

Interesting strategy.

“And why,” I ask softly, “are you refusing?”

He leans back and spreads his hands. “Because if I do, the interview gets weird for reasons unrelated to my qualifications.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” I say.

He probably grins under the visor. I can hear it. “Trust me.”

Something about the way he says it pings the back of my brain.

I tap my pen against the clipboard. “What makes you think you’re qualified?”

“I’m very good at standing between people and bad outcomes,” he says easily. “I don’t panic. I don’t escalate unless someone else already did.”

“And violence?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Contextual.”

That gets him half a point.

“And who did you work for before this?” I ask, casual.

Another pause. Shorter this time.

“…I am between opportunities.”

Ah.

There it is.

I smile, slow and sharp. “You’re unemployed.”

“Funemployed,” he corrects. “Recently.”

I study him. The helmet. The body language. The complete lack of fear. He hasn’t glanced at the exits once, but somehow knows exactly where they are.

“You’re aware this is a clean business,” I say, reducing my eyes to slits that have made grown men wet themselves.

“Yes,” he says, with the enthusiasm of a kid asked if they wanted ice-cream. Or what I assume one would sound like—I avoid tiny humans at every cost.

“And you’re okay with that.”

“Absolutely.” A beat. “I’m very good at pretending I don’t see things.”

Another half point.

“You’re either very stupid,” I say quietly, “or very confident.”

He thinks about it. “Could be both.”

I laugh once. I don’t mean to.

He perks up immediately.

I look him over one last time.

I should say no.

Instead, I snap the contract from my clipboard and hand it over.

And just like that, everything goes off the rails.