A few seconds later, my phone vibrates.
“Better answer that,” Dasha winks.
That bitch!
Rocco Morelli
That woman in the black dress. - I’ve seen her before. I can’t stop staring. I know it’s rude, but how can a guy stop when she’s that captivating?
She’s confident, that’s for sure. She’s young and full of hope. I wonder how much she’s worth. $4,000? $5,000? I’d settle on $10,000 if I had to…
When she spins around to pretend to look at food, her dress swivels around her thick thighs. Her tits are nearly falling out the top of her silky dress. She knows what she’s doing.
Just looking at her gets me off. Knowing that she can see me staring turns me on.
She’s drop-dead gorgeous. You think I’d let this one out of my sight. Fat fucking chance.
That woman is mine.
Every few seconds or so, she turns back to glance at me. The way her eyes dart toward mine, down to the zipper of my hand stitched pants, tells me she wants me. All she has to do is say the word.
Instead, her boring friend struts her way toward me. The way she’s holding her dress nearly makes me drop my drink. It’s not very charming, and she’s way too underdressed.
“Look, honey,” I say. “You’re not my type. Seriously, I’m not interested.”
“Oh blow it out your ass, I’m not here for you,” she tells me.
A smile creeps onto my face. At least she’s got some humor. “Then what do you want? Money? Are you here to get contacts, or whatever it is you business kids do?”
“I’m 31,” she says. “Not exactly a kid.”
I’m 45, going on 29. When you’ve lived as much as I have, you acquire certain tastes. You understand the world a little bit better too.
“You’re all children to me,” I say, glancing at that woman again.
“Even my friend?” she asks me.
“What’s her name?” I ask. I’m not about to waste my time chit chatting with this woman. I need the other one. The woman with chestnut hair and wide-set hips.
“Madison,” she mutters. “Napolitano.”
I sigh. “She’s one of the Napolitano girls? Oh, fuck,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “Her father passed away a month ago.”
“I, uh, heard,” I say.
The Napolitano family comes from dirty money. They’ve been siphoning it from the streets of Detroit for decades. I’ve heard they’re more legitimate now, but the rumors still abound.
I cough. “My apologies to the family. I have to run. Excuse me,” I say.
I move forward to leave. The Napolitano Family is competing business for me. I’m simply here because their hotel chain bid more on the land. I came to scope things out, not to make a whole ordeal out of this.
Her friend stops me in my tracks. “She wanted me to give you her number,” she says. “You do want that, don’t you?”
Fuck.
I swallow down hard, feeling that thick click in my throat. “Sure,” I mutter. “I’ll take her number and put it in my Rolodex.”