I scream in my throat and shake my head, but he catches the side of my face, plants a quick kiss on the tape over my mouth and straightens.
Dammit. I missed the chance to headbutt him!
Asshole.
And then he’s gone. And I’m tied to my own bed with a pair of tights.
Chapter Sixteen
Armando
Marco says Don G is out at his strip club Lollipops, so I’d better get my ass over there and report.
The fact that you just whacked a guy is not the kind of thing you say over the phone, and Don G wouldn’t want me coming to his house with that shit, either. We don’t talk business around the women in the family. We leave them and all the innocent out of it. It’s part of the code.
It makes me sick that Hannah didn’t get left out of the pile of shit I’m in because tarnishing her might become the thing I regret most.
And here I thought I’d lost my conscience altogether.
I drive her van to Lollipops but park it a few blocks away. I don’t want anyone making a connection between me and my little florist. Someone’s still trying to kill me, and I can’t have her caught in the crossfire any more than she’s already been.
I stalk into Lollipops, and the whole gang is there. It’s the old crew—Don G’s inner circle, minus Alex, his son-in-law. He’d already been like a son to Don G, and he ended up marrying his daughter while I was in the pen, so I’m guessing he’s permanently banned from Lollipops out of respect to Jenna.
Funny, at this moment, I wouldn’t mind the same. The girls twirling around their poles do nothing for me. Neither does the male company.
Lollipops is a reputed strip club in the city. It has an old-school vibe to it, with neon signs on the walls and velvet-covered furniture. There are two stages at the back of the room, each with its own pole, where two dancers will perform simultaneously. Two large bar sections fill the main area of the club and a few smaller tables littered around for more intimate conversations. The music blasts from speakers set up around the club and seems to fill every corner of the room with booming bass.
The walls are adorned with black and white photographs of former dancers as well as signed photos from other celebrities who have visited over time. While there is a decent selection of drinks available, it is mainly focused on beer, wine, and whisky since those are mostly what people come here for; there aren’t many cocktails or mixed drinks on offer.
The girls who work here wear costumes that range from barely skimpier than lingerie to some quite daring outfits—often leaving very little to imagination when they take center stage on one of the poles to show off their skills. They move gracefully around their poles in time with the music, quickly shifting between different dance moves such as pirouettes, splits and twerks while they seductively gyrate their hips or flick their hair around like silky ribbons in mesmerizing displays which usually draws loud cheers from their audiences.
At either end of both stages stand two large LED screens displaying clips from movies—usually action flicks —that serve as background distraction for those not captivated by what is happening onstage at any given moment. Occasionally special performances are put on where the dancers will use props and interact with the crowd— usually met with a lot of enthusiasm from everyone in attendance.
Overall, Lollipops has an air of old-school glamour infused with sin and debauchery.
But I sure as fuck don’t want to be here. Especially because I keep seeing Hannah’s teary face and picturing her trapped in flames. I will die because I can’t get out.
I know the chances of her apartment building going up in flames are slim, but dammit, now I can’t stop thinking about it.
I should have called someone to watch over her while I was taking care of business. Have someone sit outside her door. What the fuck was I thinking leaving her alone? I know better than that. I protect what is mi?—
“Hey, there he is! Mando, come over here.” Angel beckons me over. I shoot a glance at Don Pachino chewing his cigar, but he’s got a guy on each side vying for his attention. I’ll have to wait my turn.
“Everybody buys Mando a lap dance tonight,” Angel announces. “Make up for lost time.”
Lost time.
There was never a better descriptor for my years in prison. Not the way he means, like I lost out on part of my life—which is accurate. But for me, the time is also semi-lost. I shut down in the pen. I mean, physically I was still alive. I slept and ate and walked around. I fought for my life. Killed a man with my bare hands. But I don’t remember anything. Correction—I don’t want to remember any of it. So it’s definitely lost time.
“Nah, I’m good. I just came to have a word with?—”
“Bullshit.” Angel pulls me down into the chair beside him, already signaling one of the dancers with a twenty between his fingers. “Give my friend here a dance, sweetheart. He just got out of prison.”
I definitely don’t want the dance, but I do what I’m supposed to do—slump down in my chair with my arms loose by my sides and my thighs wide, making myself a jungle gym for the girl to rub her cheap fruity perfume all over.
“Don’t say that again,” I tell Angel. I know I’m an asshole. It’s disrespectful as hell. He’s from the older generation and a capo, and the organization is all about respecting our elders. I sense him bristle, so I add “Please.”
“Yeah, all right.” There’s a grudging tone to his voice, but he’s going to let my bad behavior slide, since I’m fresh out. I got this one free pass. “I get it.”
