Captivated by the deadly mafia boss

Nicole

“See, I told you it wouldn’t be a problem,” Staci laughs while tugging me past the bouncer. I can admit I’m in awe of how easily she worked the guy and got us in without having to flash our fake IDs. Not an easy feat for the Musicbox. I’m not sure I want to know how she managed it.

“Yeah, you did,” I credit her and move along with the crowd into the noise and bustle of the nightclub. Our friends are already inside somewhere, so we go in search.

“There,” she yells over the heavy beat of the music and grabs hold of my jacket, tugging me with her. We wiggle our way through the dancing bodies until we finally reach the table at the far end of the club.

This place is larger than life. Being a freshman at the University of Illinois, I haven’t seen the inside of many clubs, but this is more than I could have expected. Bright colored lights roam over the crowd from the DJ stand at the forefront of the dance floor. They move with the beat of the music. It’s as though the music and the dancers have given the room its own heartbeat.

I’m completely lost in it when Staci grabs my arm and pulls me close enough to yell in my ear.

“Good, right? I told you!” she laughs. Staci’s a sophomore, studying to become an elementary school teacher. Not exactly the type I would think has the ins and outs of club life, but I suppose everyone has a dark side to them. I’ve scraped her off the bathroom floor more times than I can count this semester.

“Let’s dance!” Carolyn, another of our friends, jerks her head toward the dance floor. “I reserved the table, no one’s gonna take it.” She motions to the little placard in the center of the high table. Reserved.

Carolyn’s daddy has money. Serious money. Of course she could afford to reserve a table in one of Chicago’s most popular dance clubs. We leave the table behind and make our way to the dance floor.

It’s not long before Carolyn has two guys swarming around her. Staci and Devin are grinding over their own partners as well, leaving me to find my own groove thing.

“You wanna dance, sweet thing?” someone yells into my ear, blasting my eardrum from the close proximity. I cover my ear and pull back to find my assailant.

He’s my height, straggly, with a full beard and a nose piercing. But it’s the distinct body odor repelling me. I’m not sure this guy knows how to use deodorant or a shower.

“No, thanks.” I shake my head.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” He grabs my hips and pulls me toward him, already starting to match my movements.

“I said no.” I try to move back, but he yanks me forward again. When he leans his face into me, I strike. One quick thrust of my hand upward, the heel of my hand catches his chin and chucks him backward. He’s stunned enough to let me go and stumbles back, hitting another couple dancing. The girl squeals and her partner grabs dirt-boy and shoves him further into the crowd with a warning to back off.

He ends up falling to his ass on the floor. I watch him until he scrambles back to his feet and with a hateful glare at me, disappears into the crowd.

“You okay?” Staci grabs my shoulder.

“Yeah. Just need a drink,” I call to her. She shakes her head and points to her ear. I gesture toward the bar. “Drink!”

She nods and gives me a thumbs up before sinking back into the arms of the dark stranger she’s dancing with.

The bar is as packed as the dance floor, but I manage to finagle my way forward pretty fast. My five-foot-three stature comes in handy in these circumstances. Ducking beneath arms and through crowds is much easier to do at this height.

“Cranberry and vodka!” I yell over the bar when I finally get the bartender’s attention.

His eyes narrow on me. “ID.” He cups his hand.

With a nod, I pull out my newly acquired identification and hand it over, forcing an air of confidence. I’ve used it twice and so far, not even a raised eyebrow, but this isn’t the corner store.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

While he studies it, I take the time to look him over. He’s clean shaven with a square jawline. My eyes roam over his thick neck to his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a black button-down with the club name embroidered on his left pec. No name tag. He’s not wearing the polo shirts like the other bartenders.

His blue eyes meet mine for a brief moment before he lowers my ID to a light on the other side of the bar. It bounces up enough to illuminate his face, and the casual stare tenses. He looks back up at me with a tic in his jaw.

“No.” He hands it across the bar to me.

“What do you mean, no?” I don’t take the ID. “It’s legit,” I say.

He laughs but there’s no joy in it. “Nothing about this is legit.” He tosses it on the bar top. “How did you even get in here?” His gaze flickers to the side as he asks. Is he looking for security?

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and swipe the ID, but before I can get lost in the crowd again a large hand snags my arm. I’m pulled back to the bar.

“No, no.” He lets me go but his hard stare keeps me planted. “Come with me.” He crooks his finger then points to the end of the bar.

“Something wrong, boss?” One of the bartenders pops up finally and looks between us.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” He casts another hard glance toward me. “Let’s go.”

“I’m not leaving.” I raise my voice, but with the heavy bass of the music, he probably can’t even tell.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t say you were.”