Sold: Dark Mafia Romance

When I’m done with the whiskey, I slam the tumbler down on the table. “Fuck this, I’m done waiting. Time to take care of fucking business.”

I wave a hand, catching Odhran’s attention, who’s with the Irish Mafia.

“Mr. Dellucci?” he asks as he nears the table I’m seated at.

“Where are the Duffy’s?” I grumble, no longer able to remain patient. “We had a meeting time. They know better than to keep me waiting.”

“My employers will be with you shortly,” he says. “They’re attending to a last-minute emergency.”

Giving the man a dark look, I demand, “Stop wasting my fucking time and get them, or the deal is off.”

Definitely the last time I’m doing business with the fucking Irish. They’re not the only contact I have.

“All right,” the Irish lieutenant replies, nervously clearing his throat. “I’ll see if I can get them.”

Narrowing my eyes at him, I growl, “You do that.”

As the guy turns and walks off, Claudio whispers, “Patience, Marcello.”

“Patience, my fucking ass,” I say through gritted teeth. “No one fucks with me.”

Harper

Swallowing hard, I open the warehouse door and peek inside. Loud music booms from the speakers attached to the walls. Luxurious seats are scattered all around with small paths for the waitresses to serve the men watching a show. There’s a half-naked dancer strutting her stuff on stage, winking at the hungry men watching her.

My strip club guess was right on the money.

Someone suddenly grabs me by the shirt and pulls me aside. The door shuts behind me, and my quick exit is gone.

“What are you doing here?” A scrawny, unpleasant man with a big mustache and foul-smelling breath scowls right in my face. “Are you lost, pretty girl?”

I hold up my hands, and stammer, “No, no. I was just …”

I take a quick peek around to see if I can use something here as an excuse, but there are only waitresses bustling about in short skirts and tight tops.

“I was just looking for a job.” I gulp at the sight of his gold teeth. “You’re hiring, right?”

He narrows his eyes at me, and for a second, I’m afraid he might see straight through my lie. But then he smiles. “You’re in luck then. One of my waitresses quit the other night, so I can use another one. If you can start right now, the job is yours.”

Shit.

“Really? Thanks,” I reply. “That’d be amazing.”

I didn’t actually expect him to say yes to my absurd offer. I was more or less counting on him not wanting anyone and throwing me out so I could try to sneak in from the back again. But maybe I can use this to my advantage.

“It’d better be,” he sneers, still clutching my shirt as though he wants to hit me.

But then he relaxes a little. The moment he releases me, I can finally breathe again. I don’t think he trusts me, and I definitely don’t trust him. I just hope I can lie my way through this whole ordeal.

Now I can keep an eye on those shady men who walked in. But where are they? Did they go into some room in the back, or are they hiding somewhere at a table I can’t see from this corner? I’ll have to be careful, though; with this mouth-breather watching my every move, I could be in a lot of trouble if he catches me snooping.

“There are some clothes in the back,” he says, pointing at a door behind him. “Go put them on.” The growl that follows makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I wonder if he ever smiles.

Probably not, considering the type of clients he gets. This place gives me the creeps. But I have to press on and find out more about those men. One of them looked suspiciously like the one pictured on the photo that I received from the PI.

I go into the back and fetch the clothes, but before I put them on, I throw a quick glance out onto the floor to make sure he isn’t watching me. I’d peg him for that kind of a pervert.

I swiftly exchange my clothes for the skimpy black and red outfit, which barely fits. I have to physically push my breasts down as I button up the top, and I’m afraid it might pop as I walk back into the common room and join the crowd. The thought of having to narrowly slip past all the men makes my skin crawl.

The man who hired me snaps his fingers and points at a tray with two shot glasses on it. “Table five. Numbers are on the tables.”

I grab it off the bar and walk my way to the table, carefully peeking around in search of the men, but they’re nowhere to be found. Where are they?

Then I spot them.

They’re clustered together at a big, central booth with high backs that shield them from most lines of sight. Most of them are drinking or grabbing the asses of the many dancers circling on all sides. All but two, who sit in the very center with dark expressions on their faces.