The tracker I’d slipped into Lauren’s purse was still working, pinging out her location somewhere on the West Side, far from her upscale neighborhood. I didn’t like the idea of her being over there. I knew who controlled each block of this city, who ran the drugs, who ran the girls, and where you were most likely to get mugged on a night out. Lauren was in prime mugging territory. She better have that fucking taser on her still. If not, our next discussion would probably end with her almost getting kneed in the crotch.
I revved my bike and switched lanes. It looked like half the city was out on the sidewalks, scantily clad women sashaying together in small groups, puffed up men peacocking as they tried to get their attention. Traffic was just as heavy, moving at a crawl through the intersections as drivers swerved to avoid the drunken pedestrians.
Brake lights painted the night red. My pulse thundered with impatience. Move. MOVE, it demanded. I hadn’t raced home to shower and change at record speed just to be bogged down by idiots.
Fuck it.
I revved the bike again and threaded the needle, slipping between idling cars as my wheels traced the dotted white lines. This was stupid, dangerous, but I had so much adrenaline pumping through my veins at the thought of seeing Lauren again that I felt invincible.
A cab cut left in front of me, and I swerved around it at the last second, a smile splitting my face at the close call. My parents complained about my motorcycle, but I’d never give it up. I spent so much time having to be meticulously careful to keep from getting caught or accidentally starting a turf war or revealing too much to my family’s enemies. Every word was guarded, I never let my expression belie my true emotions, and I kept my cool even under the worst circumstances—though lately that had become more difficult thanks to my temper. This bike was my rebellion, a way to burn off stress. I felt reckless on it, careless. Like I could do anything. Like my whole family wasn’t dependent on me in some way or another. Like I was free.
A horn blared to life behind me. Someone shouted a curse out their open window when I zipped past. I ignored it all and kept riding. Two more blocks to go before I could see Lauren. Two more blocks before I found out if she was as bold in person as she was online.
Neon lights flashed in my periphery. The wind ripped at my leather jacket, and I grinned, feeling borderline unhinged. Since dealing with Tommy, my interest in Lauren had shifted from a manageable obsession to something much darker. Something closer to a feeling of possession. Like I already owned her, body and soul, and all that was left to do was claim my prize.
I blamed the past decade. I’d spent too much of that time watching and not touching, and now, all the feelings I’d suppressed were roaring to the surface.
Those two weeks I’d spent fooling around with Lauren were some of my favorite memories. They were moments I’d stolen for myself—the last real thing I’d let myself have. My interest in her hadn’t suddenly sprung to life watching her work the carnival booth across from mine. I’d been aware of her for years: since I was twelve and first realized girls weren’t as annoying as I’d once thought. But even back then, I’d understood she was off-limits. Lauren was a good girl. Nonna Bianchi expected her to go off to college, get a degree and a fancy job. She was too respectable to be slumming it with the son of a mobster.
I’d kept my distance as long as I could, but that day at the fair had been my undoing. Going against my better judgment and finally letting myself kiss her, touch her, after denying myself for so long had been better than I could have imagined.
Maybe that was why I was so obsessed. Being with Lauren was the last time I’d let myself feel anything other than dead inside, and part of me wanted to remember what it was like to be alive.
A light turned yellow up ahead. I dropped low over my bike and revved the engine again, putting on one last burst of speed. My phone was mounted to my bike’s inner right handlebar, the tracker pulled up, guiding me to Lauren. Following it, I took a left down a side street.
I slowed as I approached the green dot radiating on the screen, indicating her location. The device I’d slipped into her handbag might have been small, but it was a powerful, military-grade tracker that wasn’t widely available for civilian use. It came with pinpoint accuracy, including elevation data. Lauren was somewhere on the second floor of the building directly across from me.
Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I continued past and parked a block away. I stuck to the sidewalk on the far side of the street as I reapproached, my gaze glued to the building’s façade. It was four stories and built out of brick like everything else on the block.
I’d done enough surveillance work over the years that I knew how to keep a low profile, so I slowed my steps and dug around in my jacket pocket until I found the cigarettes and lighter I’d stashed there. I didn’t smoke, not really, but I kept a pack on me at all times because it made a great excuse to stop for a minute or two to take in my surroundings.
I lit the cigarette and took a fake drag, holding the smoke in my mouth while I eyed the building. It didn’t have any signage out front, and I was starting to think Lauren was over at a friend’s place until a quick Google search set me straight. It wasn’t apartments; it was a club of some kind. Velvet. Where fantasy becomes reality, read the tagline.
The club’s website was annoyingly unhelpful. It didn’t even have a navigation menu, just an address and a phone number listed beneath the words Call for inquiries.
Back to Google I went, which led me to an eighteen-and-up Reddit forum about underground sex clubs. I scanned the comment section until I found the name Velvet and then read the words: “Great atmosphere. Phenomenal security. We felt very welcome and safe. Definitely recommend the private viewing rooms, which have a rotating cast of performers. Last Friday, we spent a lovely night watching a man get pegged onstage by a woman with the biggest tits I’ve ever seen. Great bouncing on both their parts. 10/10.”
I sucked in a surprised breath and immediately started choking on smoke.
Jesus Christ, I wasn’t ready to read that.
The cigarette fell from my lips as I looked at the building with new eyes. A kink club. Lauren was currently inside a kink club. Where Reddit told me she could fulfill any sexual need she might have.
With someone else.
Oh, hell fuck, no.
I pulled up the club’s website and clicked on the listed phone number without hesitation. My SIM card was a burner, so I wasn’t worried about the number getting logged or traced; I’d have a new one this time next week, anyway.
“This is Velvet,” a woman said after the third ring, her tone low and smoky. “How may I help you?”
I smoothed the rough edge off my accent in an attempt to disguise my voice. “I’ll be in the city next week and would like to visit your club.”
“We’d be happy to have you,” the woman said. “You should know that we’re members only, and you’ll have to set up an account before gaining entry.”
I hung up on her. A membership meant giving out my personal information and undergoing some kind of background check, which meant I needed to make another call.
This time, a man picked up. “Yo, Junior. What can I do for you?”
It was Mack, my dad’s tech guy. I’d thought he was a top-notch hacker until I’d watched my cousin’s boyfriend, Josh, at work. Now I wasn’t so sure.
“That fake ID you gave me,” I said, “does it have legs, or is it just plastic?”
“It has legs,” he assured me.
“How long are they? I might need to run it through a background check.”
“Long enough. There’s an address, a social security number, and medical records attached to it,” he said, a note of pride in his tone.
“You’re sure it’ll check out?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said.
I thanked him and hung up. He’d better fucking hope he was right.
Half an hour later, I walked into the main room of Velvet wearing a courtesy mask provided by the hostess. It was plain, black, made of plastic, and covered me from my forehead to the top of my mouth. I felt like a fucking idiot in it, but the alternative was walking around a kink club—sorry, play club, as I’d been informed—with my whole-ass face on display for anyone to see, and that wasn’t happening.
My newly printed membership card was burning a hole in my pocket, ready to be used at any of the private rooms I wanted to pop into. I’d say one thing for this place: It was well-run. While a doughty older woman took my fake ID and ran a background check, the much more pleasant host staff led me to a well-appointed office and gone through the surprisingly extensive list of rules. There were commonsense ones like respecting people’s boundaries and keeping your hands to yourself unless explicit consent was given, along with some more interesting ones like stopping if someone’s lips started to turn blue while you were choking them.
I’d cracked a joke about them not having to worry about me. I strangled people for a living; didn’t want it encroaching on my me time. Alec would have found it hilarious, but the staff just blinked at me, and I had to quickly backtrack and spew some bullshit about how I meant it financially. Afterward, I kept my mouth shut. This was why mobsters and normal people didn’t mix well.
Now, as I walked through the first-floor lounge, I had to agree with the anonymous Reddit post I’d read outside. This place took not only their rules but their security seriously. There were large men guarding the entrance. I spotted several cameras high in the corners, barely visible because their matte black coating blended in with the wallpaper. All the play room doors had scanners on them, and you had to swipe your member card to gain entry. I was betting each card stroke was recorded, so if anything went awry, whoever monitored them would know every single person who’d been inside when the incident occurred.
It was impressive. And so was the décor: dark, moody, tactile. Instead of bright overhead lights like I saw in a lot of clubs, this one was lit with floor and table lamps that cast the occupants in a soft, forgiving light. The furniture was clad in tweed and velvet and leather. Along the far wall, an antique mahogany bar gleamed with a fresh coat of polish. It smelled like citrus and old books, but beneath that were the undeniable hints of sex and latex.
I scanned the people around me. This lounge seemed to be the main hub of the club, a place where members gathered while they waited to enter other rooms, meet friends, or take a breather between . . . sessions? Scenes? I didn’t know the lingo. All I knew was that it was crowded, and the soft light made it hard to pick out faces, which I’m sure was intentional.
I wasn’t the only anonymous person in attendance. A few others wore what looked like custom masks, everything from a standard balaclava to a horror-movie-inspired face covering. The sight weirded me out, but more than a few women were crowded around the Jason wannabee, so maybe it was some kind of fetish?
I felt eyes on me as I moved through the room. These people seemed much more at ease than I was, like they’d been here often enough that they knew most others in attendance, understood the rules, both written and unspoken. I was the fresh blood, so of course I drew notice.
A woman broke away from the wall and approached me. She was a few inches shorter than I was, curvy, attractive, with blond hair and blue eyes. Eyes that were downturned as she stopped right in front of me. I glanced around us, but the people nearest were only watching with mild interest, no cutting amusement in their eyes to tell me I was being punked or something. My confusion only deepened as the blond bowed to me, lifting her hands in offering, some sort of leather accessory—a collar?—resting on her palms.
The fuck was I supposed to do with that?
I waited for her to explain herself, but she just stood there, silent.
“Uh . . .” Not wanting to appear rude, I reached out and patted the top of her head. “No thank you.”
She bowed deeper and stepped away, so I assumed I’d at least avoided some kind of faux pas. I moved past her, on the verge of sweating. Jesus Christ, this was uncomfortable. If I’d paused for a second before storming in here, I probably would have talked myself out of it, but the thought of Lauren with someone else sent me barreling inside without a single thought besides getting to her. Had she been coming here all these years? How many of these assholes knew what she felt like? Tasted like? How many tongues would I have to cut out of people’s—
Nope. Stop that, I told myself. You’re trying to be a better human being, and homicidal thoughts like that aren’t helping you find her.
Glancing at my phone, I saw that Lauren was still on the second floor, so I headed toward the stairs. They spat me out in a dimly lit hallway. The sounds were more overt up here, and every closed door I passed seemed to hold something new. Laughter, moans, the sharp snap of leather connecting with flesh.
The doors had placards on them, but the labels were as frustratingly vague as Velvet’s website, at least to someone like me who wasn’t in the know. Learn, Hunt, Warm, Secure. My phone told me Lauren was in Watch (because of course she was), and, taking a deep breath, I scanned my membership card and carefully pushed the door open, not knowing what the fuck I was about to walk in on.
I found the room surprisingly full, most people already sitting, the rest loitering at the back while they sipped their drinks and talked quietly amongst themselves. The lighting was even dimmer than in the hallway, with just a single overhead fixture shining down on the far side, where a platform stood, looking more like a dais than a stage. A bed sat front and center on it, piled with dark silk sheets.
The sound of a soft, familiar laugh drew my gaze. Lauren sat in the front row. She was still wearing that enticingly flimsy silk dress, talking to the person next to her with enough animation that when she gestured with a hand, the motion sent one of the whisper-thin straps sliding down her shoulder. It was only with monumental effort that I stayed where I was while she casually slipped it back into place.
My gaze snagged on the person beside her. It was a man. A man who was looking at her with far too much hunger in his eyes for my liking. Nope. Not happening. I hadn’t waited all these years just to let some fucking rando move in on her in front of me.
I slipped through the crowd and rounded several rows of chairs, approaching Lauren, my gaze trained on the man beside her. In a split second, I had to decide how to play this: by force or coercion. Force would be the obvious choice for some, a way to flex their dominance, show the competition who they were dealing with. I discarded it out of turn. As tempting as it was, this was a tight space, and I didn’t know the guy or how he’d react to direct confrontation. My goal was to get close to Lauren and stay close to her, not get kicked out of this club right after gaining entry.
Plus, coercion was much more fun. And yes, I was aware of how fucked-up that made me sound, but I felt like it showed real growth that I’d so quickly moved past the temptation of tongue removal.
I stopped in front of my target, giving him an affable smile. “Hey, there.” My voice was friendlier than normal, borderline unrecognizable to anyone who knew me. “I’m so sorry, but you’re in my seat.”
He looked up at me, his light brown hair artfully tussled, the black-framed glasses perched on his nose reflecting the overhead light. I wasn’t usually one to judge, but he looked like a pretentious fuck. Like he belonged in a lecture hall, making inappropriate advances on his students. “I’m sorry?”
“No problem,” I said, intentionally misinterpreting his apology.
I clapped him on the shoulder in an affable way, prompting him to stand, and he frowned, even as he started to rise, like he was confused about what was happening but was too polite to make a fuss. Just as I’d hoped. People could be talked into doing all sorts of shit they didn’t want to if the right amount of pressure was exerted. Lucky for me, the professor seemed more vulnerable to coercion than most of the assholes I was used to dealing with.
“I appreciate you moving,” I said.
His frown deepened. “Um . . . you’re welcome?”
“Thanks.” I patted him on the shoulder one last time before taking the seat he’d just vacated.
Lauren sat there looking stunned, allowing me a moment to take her in. She was just as beautiful in person as she was in the bathroom selfies she’d posted, makeup more dramatic than this morning, hair curled into loose waves. The gloss she wore made me want to lean in and bite her lower lip, but after her violent outburst in the back of the church, it probably wouldn’t end with us making out, so I held myself in check.
Slowly, her focus shifted from the retreating man to my masked face. And then her eyes caught mine and narrowed before dropping to my hands and the words “La Famiglia” tattooed across my knuckles.
“I see my exorcism didn’t work,” she said.
I grinned. “You should try holy water next time.”
She turned fully toward me and leaned in, her voice low. “What are you doing here?”
I leaned in, too, glad for the excuse to get close to her. “Filing my taxes, you?”
“Filing a restraining order,” she shot back.
“Against who? The nerdy professor?” I half rose from my seat, pretending to look for him. “No need for paperwork. I can take care of that for you.”
She yanked me back down. “I’m serious, Junior. Why are you here?”
“I came to talk to you.”
“Well, you can’t be here,” she said, glancing around like she was afraid to be seen with me.
I tried not to be offended. “Why not?”
Her gaze returned to mine, the fire I’d glimpsed earlier in the day returning. “Because this is my place.”
“And you don’t let people like me in?” I shifted an inch closer, unable to help myself. “Discrimination is illegal, Lo.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “I meant that this place is just for me, and I don’t want someone from my past coming in here and bringing up bad memories and ruining my night.”
Goddamn it. Alec was right. I needed to apologize to her if the sight of me alone was enough to spoil her evening.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She blinked and sat back.
“For what I said to you earlier,” I clarified, “but mostly for what happened between us all those years ago. I was already getting dragged into my dad’s shit, and I figured it was better people thought you were just another obsessed moll than someone important to me.”
Her brows creased, large eyes lambent in the soft light. “Wait, are you saying I was in danger?”
I held her gaze and nodded.
Those glossy lips parted, but her response was cut off by a low chime from the overhead speakers. Instead, she said, “The show is about to start. You need to leave.”
“Are you leaving with me?” I asked, reaching out to wrap my fingers behind the backs of her knees and pull her closer. Fuck, her skin was soft.
Her nose nearly brushed mine, pupils wide in the dim light. “Are you out of your mind? No, I’m—”
A side door opened, and a man and a woman walked through it, holding hands. The man was tall, broad, with pale skin and dark blond hair. His companion was over a foot shorter, Latine, her voluptuous curves barely contained by her red dress. Though the room was packed with people, they seemed unaware of us, their gazes drinking each other in as they slowly made their way forward.
“Junior,” Lauren whispered, drawing my gaze back to her, “you have to go.”
I shook my head, our eyes locking, my thumbs stroking the outside of her knees. “If you’re staying, I’m staying.” No fucking way was I letting her out of my sight now.
She opened her mouth to protest, but the person behind me shushed her.
I grinned and put a finger to my lips, facing forward in my seat, one hand still holding on to her because she was close enough to touch, and, miracle of miracles, was actually letting me touch her.
My triumph only lasted a second before she brushed me away and crossed her legs as if trying to put some distance between us. I schooled my face, fighting my amusement, loving that Lauren knew her worth and was going to make me work for it. I’d always preferred the thrill of the chase over the easy kill, metaphorically speaking.
Mostly.
Movement drew my gaze back to the stage. I don’t know what I’d expected. Visions of whips and chains had popped into my head, the stereotypical shit most tourists like me associated with play clubs. I figured they’d make a big show of it, be over the top and cringe. Part of me was waiting for an MC to follow the couple through the side door and make some big announcement.
None of that happened. Instead, the man led the woman to a chair beside the bed. She took a seat, and he dropped to a knee in front of her.
“Give me your feet,” he said, his voice low and intimate, like there weren’t thirty fucking people watching him.
The woman smiled mischievously and planted her high heel directly onto his chest hard enough to rock him back a few inches. He chuckled, the low sound rolling through the room, and kissed her shin before slowly starting to undo the strap around her ankle.
Soft, feminine sighs swept through the crowd at my back. Someone whispered to their neighbor close enough for me to catch the words, “That level of devotion or I don’t want him.”
I suddenly felt even more uncomfortable than I had downstairs. This was a private moment between two people who obviously cared about each other. I shouldn’t be sitting here watching it like a creep.
And yet . . .
I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
