"Something strong and sweet!" I shout back. Waiting and adjusting my posture, I try to lean against the bar casually. Alluring, attention grabbing, but not too approachable. My eyes wander, searching for a stranger who also doesn't want to end the night alone. When my gaze reaches the shadowed doorway I entered through, my eyes lock with a tall, curly haired brunette. Keeping his attention, my eyes flicker over his form. I look back at him with a smile before turning around just as the bartender hands me my drink.
Now, to wait.
If all goes well, I won't have to find him. He'll find me.
Handing cash to the bartender, I raise my glass to her in thanks before stepping into the sea of writhing bodies.
My glass is empty; I've worked up a nice buzz and am dancing along with the crowd when I feel a warm body press against my back.
"Need another?" His voice is deep, sultry as one hand rests against the small of my bare back. He moves to face me, letting his hand trace down my hip and lightly caressing my thigh before pulling me against him.
It's the handsome, curly-haired brunette I made eyes at while at the bar. "I certainly wouldn't say no to another one."
He grins, "Don't go anywhere."
Oh, trust me, I won't. He squeezes through the crowd to the bar, but this time, it's his turn to look back at me and give me a once over. His eyes don't leave me and once he has my drink in hand, he quickly moves through the writhing people on the dance floor.
After handing me the drink, his hands move back to my hips. Feeling up my waist and back, I move against him, wanting—no, needing—him closer. Whether it's the alcohol, or this newfound confidence—I'm warm, each new touch brings a sense of electricity as he drops his head and presses his lips right behind my ear.
"Any chance I can get your name?" He tilts his head down, whispering in my ear. He squeezes my hips, pulling me closer while putting the shot glass in my hand.
"Names are the least of either of our worries." I reply, my voice low and measured. "You want my name as much as I want yours."
The last thing a partygoer at a secret nightclub wants is to be identifiable.
"Fair," he smirks. He's taller than me; it's not difficult to see his eyes land on the silver fabric tightly hugging my chest.
Throwing back my drink, I rest a hand against his torso. His shirt is thin, making his defined abs known under my fingertips as I move up his chest. "Names aside…I think we might be interested in a little more than what the dance floor can offer either of us tonight."
He looks down at me, a soft smile playing at the edge of his lips again. "I think you might be right." Taking my hand, he guides me off the dance floor. The same beehive stamp flickers on the inside of his wrist under the strobe lights. He leads me through the crowds and through a door behind the bar. Part of me wonders how many other girls he's led off the dance floor, but the other—more desperate—part of me, is glad I found someone experienced to walk me through the remainder of the night. Losing my virginity will be quick, easy—we won't be fumbling because he already knows what to do.
Excitement runs through me, though it's possible it's a new wave of tipsy from all the alcohol. Pulling me in front of him, he leans me against the wall, pressing his lips against mine. Pulling him against me by his shirt, my other hand travels down to the button of his pants. One of his hands plays with the ribbons tied at the back of the dress while the other traces the hem on my upper thigh.
Any worries I have about losing my virginity are long gone when he pulls away from me and leads me through another door.
CHAPTER 4
Dante
Metallic silver fabricflashes in the dim alleyway light when the door opens. There isn't a game tonight; Elena rarely wears the same thing twice, so her appearance at the club is unexpected.
What's even more unexpected is when she turns around and the face trying to take note of her environment isn't Elena.
Sofia fucking Gallo. Perfect. Just what this night needed—a mafia princess with a death wish.
She blinks against the darkness, trying to adjust her eyes to the shadows. Sofia's never come to Beehive before, and given Kieran's demands, seeing her here now sends a wave of unease through me that feels like ice water down my spine.
Vito went over the Costello demands with Rina at lunch. Did Rina tell her sister what's going on? What the hell is Sofia doing here alone? My interactions with her have been limited, and she doesn't recognize my voice when I ask for her hand, or her age. The skin on the inside of her wrist is raised, scarred. The scars aren't long, aren't parallel—not the kind I'd be troubled to find on the inside of someone's wrist. Instead, there are three small circles, forming a triangle at the base of her hand. I stamp theinside of her wrist with the telltale Beehive—inside of the wrist for family association or back of the hand for invitees. A little-known fact I was banking on her not knowing. If she knows, she's bound to check the wrists of who she interacts with tonight—the very thing I'm hoping to avoid. "Down the stairs, third door on the left."
As soon as her heels click on each downward step—honestly, how women walk in those torture devices I'll never know—I shoot off a text for backup. Moments later Marco and Luca are at my side, looking about as happy as I feel.
"Sofia is here—her wrist is stamped and she's in Elena's silver dress from last quarter's poker game." My eyes drift to Luca. "Go and keep eyes on her. Don't tell her who you are but get her into the VIP lounge." My hope is she doesn't recognize him; he's new enough to the family and she hasn't had many interactions with him.
Luca nods, stamping the inside of his wrist and taking the stairs two at a time down to the club.
"Take care of the front and call Nico." I hand the black light to Marco. "Tell him we may have an uncooperative princess. Make sure he knows we need to book it to the boss."
Marco nods, the light from his phone casting a glow over the dark cove we're stationed in while monitoring who comes and goes. Rather than follow Luca through the club, which would be about as subtle as a neon sign reading "BUSTED," I make my way to the lounge through the dark and narrow hallways used for Beehive staff—a subset of Rosso associates. They get safety and job security; we get more space to operate.
