Sold: Dark Mafia Romance

“You know the Italians are not gonna like this. He’s an angry bastard.”

“Igor said stall. So we stall. Do you wanna fuck with him?” the scarred guy answers.

“I don’t wanna fuck with either of them. Italians, Russians… they’re both fucking terrifying,” the other guy says in a hushed tone.

“We won’t,” the scarred man replies. “We just do what Igor told us to do, and neither of us will end up wearing concrete shoes in the river. Fuck the Italians. I’m trying to save my own ass here.”

Igor? Who is Igor?

The other guy shudders. “I don’t like this. I don’t like any of this one fucking bit.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” someone hisses into my ear, and my body jolts from the shock. It’s the scary-looking guy who hired me, and he has his hand on my shoulder. “Get away from there.”

He pulls me away from the door and spins me around, forcing me to look at his ugly face. “You need to mind your own damn business,” he growls, pushing me toward the tables. “Go do what you’re paid for. Customers are waiting to be served.”

I don’t reply, as it’ll only add more fuel to the fire. I was obviously not supposed to hear that conversation or be anywhere near those guys. Whatever it is they were talking about must be important.

Russians? Italians? They have to be mobsters, for sure, which means I’m close because the document the PI gave me specifically stated mobsters were involved. I have to keep an eye out for those Irish guys.

With my tray, I walk over to table sixteen, only to realize it’s that customer I’ve been avoiding all night. He’s a rowdy, drunk guy, touching all the girls like he owns them, even the waitresses. The mere thought of getting close makes me nauseous, but I don’t think I have a choice in the matter. The grumpy guy who hired me is still glaring at me, his eyes practically boring their way through my back.

Swallowing back my nerves, I move to the drunkard’s table and quickly put down his drink. But right as I turn to make a swift retreat, he grabs my wrist and says, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m busy,” I lie, but his hand remains firmly clenched around my wrist.

“Aw, c’mon, I want to get to know you a little bit,” the guy says as he drags me toward him. “You’re beautiful, girl. What’s your name?”

“Get your hands off me,” I snarl, throwing him a dirty look as I try to jerk free.

“You think you don’t want it, but you do. And I’ve got a lot of love to give,” he says with a drunken laugh. “Sit on my lap. I need some company.”

When his free hand slides down to my waist, I swing the tray right at his face. “Fuck off!”

WHACK!

He slumps onto the couch, one hand on his dick as a red mark that will surely leave a bruise grows on his face. Perhaps he’ll stop harassing the other girls too now. I just hope no one will notice him lying here because if my boss finds out, he’ll surely throw me out. However, when I look up, he isn’t the one watching me.

It’s the one from the PI’s document. The one with the coal-black eyes and dark, slicked-back hair. There’s a devilish smirk on his face as he looks me straight in the eyes.

And the way he’s looking at me—as though he enjoyed the show and would like to see more—makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

There’s something about him. Something viciously dominating. As though he can make anyone bend to his will with a mere flick of the finger. Even me.

And I can’t fucking stop staring right back at him.

Shit.

I swiftly break the connection and run off into the nearest VIP booth. I close the door … hoping he won’t come and find me here.

Marcello

I’m a second away from leaving this shit hole when I hear a commotion off to one side.

“Where do you think you’re going,” A man says while pawing one of the cocktail waitresses.

And not just any cocktail waitress.

Her.

The girl with the silky soft, blond hair and the emerald eyes, the one who captured every inch of my attention, even the thick, throbbing one in my pants.

Something about that girl still catches my attention. She doesn’t look like she belongs in a place like this. Her eyes seem haunted.

“I’m busy,” she replies. I note the tension in her voice and how carefully she’s trying to peel the drunken man’s hands off her.

My gaze drifts over her flawless skin, her perfect curves, and then settles on her clenched jaw.

She looks fierce and confident, like a warrior.

“Aw, c’mon, I want to get to know you a little bit,” the bastard repeats. “You’re beautiful, girl. What’s your name?”