Twisted Loyalties (The Camorra Chronicles 1)

She glanced up, noticing my attention. I still waited for the inevitable reaction. It didn’t come. She smiled shyly, her eyes registering my clothes. No suit today. Black jeans and a black long sleeved shirt, my preferred style, but sometimes the suit was necessary. She hesitated, then quickly returned to the task of serving beer to an old fucker.

Who was this girl? And why wasn’t she scared?

Tearing my eyes away from her, I headed toward Roger who was talking to our bookie Griffin. I shook hands with both men. Then I nodded toward the bar. “New girl?”

Roger shrugged. “She showed up in my office today, looking for a job. I need new staff.” He regarded me uncertainly. “Do you want me to alert Stefano?”

Stefano was our romancer. He preyed on women, pretended to be in love with them, and eventually forced them to work in one of the Camorra’s whorehouses.

I didn’t get along with him. I shook my head. “She doesn’t fit the profile.”

I didn’t know how Stefano choose the girls he pursued, and I didn’t give a fuck.

“So how’s it going?” I nodded toward Griffin’s iPad where he managed all of the bets coming in.

“Good. The few idiots who have bet against you will bring us a lot of money.”

I nodded, but my eyes went over to the bar counter again. I wasn’t even sure why. I had driven the girl home last night on a whim, and that was it. “I’ll grab something to drink.”

Not waiting for them to reply, I made my way toward the bar. People chanced looks at me like they always did before looking away. It was annoying as fuck. But I’d worked hard to earn their fear.

I stopped in front of the counter and put my gym bag down beside me, then sat on a stool. The men at the other end of the bar threw uneasy glances my way. I recognized one of them as someone I’d paid a visit because of three grand recently. His arm was still in a cast.

The girl came over to me. Her skin was slightly tanned but didn’t have the unnatural bronze tinge of someone who went to the sunbeds like most of the women who worked in our places.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon again,” she said. She smiled that shy smile that reminded me of days long gone. Days I wanted to forget most of the time. She had a light sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and cornflower blue eyes with a darker ring around them. Now that her hair wasn’t dripping wet, it was dark auburn with natural golden highlights.

I rested my forearms on the counter, glad that my long sleeves covered my tattoo. There would be time for the revelation later. “I told you I frequented this place.”

“No suit, but all black. You like it dark, I suppose,” she teased.

I smirked. “You have no idea.”

Her brows drew together, then the smile returned. “What can I do for you?”

“A glass of water.”

“Water,” she repeated doubtfully, the corners of her mouth twitching. “That’s a first.” She let out a soft laugh.

I hadn’t changed into my fight boxers yet. I didn’t tell her that I had a fight scheduled that evening, which was one reason why I couldn’t drink, and that I had to break some legs in the morning, which was the other.

She handed me a glass of water. “There you go,” she said, walking around the bar and wiping a table next to me. I let my eyes trail over her body. Yesterday I hadn’t paid nearly enough attention to the details. She was thin and small, like someone who never knew if there would be food on the table, but managed to carry herself with a certain air of grace despite her shabby clothes that didn’t allow for a good look at the shape of her body. She was wearing the same dress from yesterday, and those horrible flip-flops, still completely wrong for the temperatures.

“What brought you here?” I asked. Her father lived in a bad part of town. I couldn’t believe that she didn’t have somewhere else where she could stay. Anywhere else would have been better. With her freckles, shy smile and elegant features, she belonged to a nice suburb, not a fucked up neighborhood and definitely not in a fight club in mob territory. But the latter was my fault of course.

“I had to move in with my father because my mother is back in rehab,” she said without hesitation. There was no reservation, no caution. Easy prey in this world.

“Do I know your father?” I asked.

Her brows puckered. “Why would you?”

“I know a lot of people. And even more people know me,” I said with a shrug.

“If you’re famous you should tell me so I don’t embarrass myself with my ignorance,” she joked easily.