Chapter Four SANTINO
Iwatched her stare at me like I'd personally insulted generations of her ancestors.
Beautiful. Absolutely fucking beautiful.
Most women softened after a kiss. Smiled.
Looked pleased with themselves. Leaned closer like they already knew where the night was headed. This girl looked ready to declare war.
The private lounge felt too small around us.
Warm amber light spilled across black leather and polished floors, sliding over mirrors and gold accents in slow streaks while distant music thudded through the walls like a second heartbeat.
Somewhere beyond the door, people laughed and glasses clinked and life kept moving exactly the way it had before.
But inside this room? Everything felt quieter. Smaller. Because I could still feel her. Still feel the ghost of her mouth against mine. Still feel the way she'd curled her fingers into the front of my jacket like she'd forgotten herself for a second.
That was becoming a fucking problem. Because I had kissed women before. Women with magazine covers and designer dresses and perfect practiced smiles. Women who smelled like expensive perfume and champagne and looked incredible beside me in photographs.
I remembered some of their faces. Barely. I remembered none of their kisses. None. And somehow I already knew I was going to remember this one. Forever.
This little brunette disaster had walked into my club by accident and somehow kept dragging laughter out of me without even trying.
I looked at her properly then. Dark hair falling over one bare shoulder.
Flushed cheeks. Big furious eyes staring back at me.
Tiny black dress. White heels. Pretty mouth still slightly parted from kissing me.
And something ugly twisted low in my chest. Reality came back all at once.
The world outside this room. The fact that she belonged to somebody.
Somebody's daughter. Somebody's future wife.
Mine wasn't a world where beautiful things stayed beautiful.
Mine was a world that stained things. Ruined things.
Ruined people. I knew that better than anyone.
Because four years ago I'd watched my brother die. And I had never been the same man after.
My smile disappeared. She noticed.
The little line between her brows appeared. "What now?"
I looked away from her. Very bad fucking sign. Because I never looked away first. I shoved both hands into my pockets and took a step backward. Distance. Needed distance.
"We're done,” I said plainly. I kept my expression neutral. "Go home, little troublemaker."
Absolute stillness. Then, outrage. Pure offended outrage exploded across her face. Her mouth actually fell open. "I'm sorry, what?!"
I turned and started walking toward the door. "Your free time is probably almost up."
"No, no, no." Her heels clicked sharply against the floor behind me. "You do not get to do that."
I stopped. Slowly looked over my shoulder. "Do what?"
She stared at me like she wanted to physically fight me.
"You kiss me," she hissed, pointing dramatically at me, "and then decide you're done?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You seem very invested in this."
Her eyes widened. "I am not invested!"
"Mm,” I nodded.
"You are unbelievable!" I watched anger spread across her face while she folded her arms tightly over her chest.
And fuck me, I wanted to pull her right back into my arms. Wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to see whether she'd make that tiny surprised sound a second time. Wanted to watch her forget to argue. Wanted so much more.
Absolutely the fuck not. I had already lost Angelo. Already spent four years buried beneath grief and blood and revenge. I wasn't dragging some smart-mouthed little hurricane into my mess. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
I looked at her for a long moment. Long enough for her anger to soften around the edges. Long enough for confusion to replace it. Long enough for me to hate the look in her eyes. Because she looked disappointed.
Then I stepped closer. Close enough to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Close enough to smell apples again. Close enough to feel her breathing change.
"We'll see each other again,” I warned her.
Her eyes searched mine. "We will?"
I smiled beneath the devil mask. Slow. Certain. Dangerous. "You sealed your fate tonight."
Silence. Then I opened the door.
"Now get out of my club before I change my mind,” I finished.
She stared at me. Still angry. Still confused. Still looking at me like she'd forgotten what she was supposed to feel. Good. Because I'd forgotten too. And that scared the hell out of me.
I turned before I did something catastrophically stupid.
Like look at her again. Like walk back. Like forget every reason I had for leaving in the first place.
The door clicked shut behind me, cutting off the private lounge and the tiny brunette hurricane currently standing inside it looking confused and pissed off and probably plotting my murder.
Silence hit me for about half a second. Then reality came rushing back in.
Music bled through the walls in slow, heavy pulses.
Bass rolled beneath my shoes like a second heartbeat while amber light spilled across black marble and gold accents lining the hallway outside.
Somewhere deeper inside the club, glasses clinked.
People laughed. Doors opened and closed.
Everything looked exactly the same. Everything felt completely different.
Because my brain, traitorous bastard that it was, tried walking backward.
Back toward the room. Back toward dark hair falling over bare shoulders.
Back toward huge angry eyes and dramatic hand gestures and a mouth that apparently existed for two purposes: arguing with me, and ruining my life.
I shoved my hands into my pockets. Absolutely the fuck not. I walked down the hallway. Then kept walking. Then somehow found myself slowing down. I frowned. Why the hell was I slowing down?
I looked over my shoulder. Nothing. Just hallway. No little troublemaker chasing me. No outraged expression. No tiny voice yelling about what a sick bastard I was.
Good. Excellent. Perfect. Then why did I feel annoyed? I hated myself. Actually hated myself. I moved toward the main floor again. The club opened beneath me in black and gold and moving shadows. People swayed beneath hanging lights while expensive perfume mixed with whiskey and smoke and money.
Normal. Everything was normal. I was normal. Completely normal. I wasn't thinking about a girl I'd known for less than an hour. Definitely not.
Halfway toward the staircase, I passed three girls standing near one of the lounges. I recognized them. Her friends.
A blonde looked at me. Then narrowed her eyes. The second girl looked scandalized. The third slowly looked over my shoulder like she expected Aurora to appear behind me. Oh no. Absolutely not.
I knew that expression. Women smelled gossip before it even existed. The blonde looked back at me suspiciously. Then looked at the hallway. Then back at me.
"What have you done?" she asked.
Nope. I kept walking. Because I wasn't doing this. I wasn't stopping for questions. Wasn't answering shit. And I sure as fuck wasn't standing here while they pieced together that I'd disappeared with their friend for almost an hour. Hard pass.
Behind me I heard whispering. I needed to walk faster.
I soon reached the stairs. Then the surveillance room. Then blessed fucking peace. The door swung open. Marco sat exactly where I'd left him. Boots crossed on the desk. Whiskey in hand. Camera feeds covering the entire wall in front of him.
He didn't look at me. Didn't say anything. Just slowly took a sip. Then another. Suspicious. Very suspicious. I narrowed my eyes. "Why do you look like that?"
Marco glanced sideways. "Like what?"
"Like you're about to say something irritating,” I muttered, tossing my blazer over the chair’s back.
He looked back toward the camera screens. Another sip. Long pause. "How'd she taste?"
I stared at him. Marco stared back. Completely serious. I blinked once. Twice.
Then pointed at him. "You've gotten really comfortable speaking to me like this."
He shrugged lazily. "I've survived you for eight years. Fear isn't really part of my personality anymore."
I ripped the mask off and threw it onto the desk. Marco watched me carefully then. Because the jokes disappeared. The smirk disappeared. And I realized he wasn't teasing anymore. He was reading me. Motherfucker.
I looked toward the wall of camera feeds. Toward the hallway outside the private lounge. Toward absolutely nothing.
Then I said quietly, "Like something I shouldn't have ruined."
Marco froze. He leaned forward and gave me the exact same look people gave men standing near cliffs. "Good. Because you're not going near her again."
I laughed once. Short. Dry. "Marco, you don’t get to tell me what to do."
"Don't do that thing where you pretend you don't care,” he said.
"I don't fucking care."
Marco stared at me for a long second. Then looked at the camera screen showing the hallway outside the lounge. Then looked back at me. "You've been staring at the same screen for twenty seconds."
"Fuck you,” I hissed, sitting down on my chair and motioning for him to get me a drink. Marco stared at me for another long second after I told him to fuck himself.
Then he sighed. Not annoyed. Worse. The disappointed sigh. I hated that fucking sigh. Because Marco only used it when I was standing five seconds away from doing something catastrophically stupid. The kind of stupid that usually involved blood, bullets, broken bones, or headlines.
The room around us hummed quietly beneath walls of surveillance screens.
Camera feeds flickered over black leather and polished steel, washing the room in shifting blue-white light.
Bass from downstairs traveled faintly through the floor beneath my shoes in slow vibrations.
Whiskey and smoke still hung in the air from hours of sitting in here.