Chapter 5—Tommy
Not good.
This is absolutely not good dancing. It’s downright torture to watch. Perhaps Carl knew what he was doing by not putting her in a private room until now.
This girl has zero idea what sex appeal is. Unless she’s doing it on purpose, but I’ve got a feeling she’s not. She’s a dancer. A true dancer. My mama dragged me and my siblings to enough ballets that I know one when I see it.
She’s got talent, I’ll give her that. But talent for the stage, not a strip club.
Which begs the question of why she’s here.
Her act before drew me in. There was something about her that I saw and wanted almost instantly.
Which is probably what more than half the people felt.
But unlike them, I got to her first. And that was only because Carl knew not to deny me, even if he still charged a fortune. One I’ll be expecting back after this.
She’s stiff in her movements, all tight elbows and smooth legs. Her dance of choice is meant for Mozart or Bach, not for this bump-and-grind shit they’ve got pumping through the speakers.
She’s also a football field away from me.
The rooms are bigger than some of the other strip joint private rooms I’ve been in, but not as much as she’s making out.
I’m sitting in the overstuffed, overwide chair on one back wall, and she’s as far away as can be, practically backing herself into the wall, leaving barely any space between her and it.
Might be the reason for her restricted movements, but it’s obvious why she isn’t a private-room girl.
She can’t dance worth shit.
But she sure as hell can glide.
I sit back in the doublewide chair. This is going to take a while.
Before coming in here, Carl let me know that not only was this her first dance but that no one was going to disturb me.
At first I thought he was just turning a blind eye, the whole “let the boss do what he wants” plan.
Despite that Carl seems to think he’s the man in charge around here and not just an employee like everyone else.
I was here before her, so I poked around a bit. It’s not a big room, very little furniture. One place for the patron to sit and a small platform stage before it. No lamp, no table. And not a single camera in sight. Not something I’m used to.
I’ve been to my fair share of strip clubs.
Even the private rooms. No shame in paying a woman for their time when I don’t want to do much more than watch.
I rarely do more simply because I’m no fool to think they’re clean.
Most probably are, but I’m not risking it.
My mom knows my doctor, and if she found out I got an STD, I would never hear the end of it.
Also, my brothers would give me shit. Another thing I’m not now or ever in the mood for.
When the Crown Jewel entered, there was no mistaking the sound of locks engaging.
It set off every alarm bell in my body, but I held it together.
I needed to seem unbothered by it, in case she was going to report me to Carl.
While I don’t give two shits about his thoughts, I don’t want to tip my hand before I get started.
A club that isn’t about cameras might be overlooked.
But a locked door? One with a woman and a complete stranger?
I might not have been in the business for longer than five minutes, but I know that’s never a good idea.
If Danny found out, he would probably burn the entire place to the ground.
He’s got a thing about locks. Hates when something is behind a door—well, anything, really—that he can’t get to.
It’s common knowledge that he’s the type to just break the door, or hell, remove all the doors in a place to avoid being locked out.
Him being in charge of family security is the only thing that curbs his urge to just break everything down.
His tech team is good at what they do, and I don’t think any of them come to him until they break through any firewalls they find. Better to deal with that than him when he gets in one of those moods.
I wasn’t the only one who flinched at the locks engaging.
But unlike me, her tremors continued as I watched her move.
She was stiff at first and just got worse.
The dance? It’s a train wreck. Especially with her trying to back herself into the wall behind her.
She’s brushing the wall with her elbows on turns, bumping it with her knees, and nearly grazes it with her head during a pirouette.
“Got any other moves, sweetheart?” If she expected me to be here for the love of the art and that’s all, she’s wrong. I might not touch the girl, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want a bit more show involved than whatever this is.
She stumbles at my words, and I cough to cover my laugh. She corrects herself, and it’s even more painful to watch her hesitate before sliding her hands over her body. Her hips might shake, but not to the beat of the music playing overhead.
Her hands on her body draw the eye, though. She’s beautiful. There’s no denying it. But it’s her innocence in all of this that pulls me in more and pisses me off all at once.
Her actions remind me of my own. My naiveness in this world and what I could do.
The thought that I was ready for something, then proven wrong.
The wound on my throat is proof that I was too cocky for my own good, thinking I could be something that I wasn’t ready to be, might never be now.
Danny’s the fighter. Even Vinny. Bobby’s the brains.
I’m just the one who plays. Or used to. I’d had some training before the incident, knew how to kill and how to hunt.
What I didn’t know is how to deal with the possibility of failure.
Watching her struggle pulls thoughts and feelings out of me similar to what seeing the scar does. A reminder that I was so close to failing. That I’m not invincible, but vulnerable. And that’s what the world sees too.
For those in the business, a scar can mean many things.
Strength for overcoming things. Power in taking whatever caused it and remaining standing.
But for me, I swear it’s a weakness. Proof that the Leones aren’t as godlike as we pretend, but human.
Mortal. Filled with flaws. No one says that, but I feel it.
I feel pity when people look at me. The hesitation to give me an assignment in case I fuck up and let death fully take me this time.
I was closer to death seven months ago than any male Leone has been in decades.
I’m the wake-up call no one wanted. The scar is a reminder that we all could go at any moment. And with me being the baby of the family, the one who should outlive them all, it’s a daunting fact for them. I know it. They see me, and they see death knocking on their doorstep.
How can they not? That’s what I see when I look in the mirror.
And when I look at her, I see me all those months ago, forcing myself into a place I didn’t belong.
This is all wrong for her. Not a single part of her screams that she wants to be here.
That this is what she wants to be doing.
I see the desperation in her eyes, the courage to keep going, even if her hands shake as they move along her outfit.
Dark gray with sparkles. Probably a costume in another life, or just the one before this.
It molds to her enough to give every indication that you see everything without revealing true skin underneath it.
“What else do you want?”
“What else do you got?”
She bites her bottom lip, and I stare at it for longer than I should. The room is all shadows on my side while she’s painted in light. No place for her to hide. I’m fine with her on display. I want to watch her, see how she reacts to my voice and words alone. Not my looks. Not my scar.
Before it, I used to charm everyone. Now, it’s the only thing some people see.
I watch her debate with herself. Her face is a mix of emotions, and not one of them is pleasure or happiness.
Her hand goes to the top of her shoulder, her thumb positioned under the fabric. When she moves even slightly, to take it off or maybe just lower it, her eyes shut, and the small shake of her head is probably for herself and not me.
My head rolls on my neck at her movements. I’m stiff from holding myself back and not demanding she tell me why she’s here. Why she’s doing this.
And why would Carl lock someone so pure in a room with a monster like me?
To the outside world, I might seem like the party type. But I bear the name Leone. I have darkness in my soul. I killed my first man before I could legally drink.
Some say darkness recognizes darkness. That might be true, but we also see the light.
We know when something shouldn’t be there.
And this woman, this Crown Jewel, is all light.
Even if her eyes open and shadows take over as if she’s resigned herself to a fate she wasn’t a willing partner in planning hours ago.
Her hand falls back to her side, choosing a different option for her. One she can do.
Her steps are small, but she gets closer to me.
I don’t move. My feet are flat on the ground but far apart as I lounge back in the surprisingly comfortable chair.
I might have to get one of these for the house.
It’s quite relaxing while still not feeling as if I’m sinking into a chair that I’ll need help to get out of later.
When she’s close, the shadows play along her skin.
I know she can’t see all of me, just what one would see in candlelight, but she looks me over anyway, from the tips of my shoes to the tailored suit I’m in.
My neck is exposed, but from this angle, my scar probably looks more like a shadow than the gruesome gouge along my skin that it really is.
I keep my face neutral as she takes me in, my eyes on her face. I’ve seen her body. Been looking at it longer than I’ve been here. But her face? I didn’t need to see it before to know she was young. Her movements and actions speak to that.