- CHAPTER ONE -
COSTELLO
Once upon a time, I would have been a king.
Firstborn.
Royal blood.
A family full of money and power and everything I could possibly dream of. I would have ruled justly, taken care of my loved ones, and done my best for my country. The key words in all of this are would have.
Modern-day princes like me? Guys with Mafia roots who stay in control thanks to threats instead of our lineage? We’re often the bad guys.
I sure am.
It’s why I was checking my handgun under my coat; I didn’t need to look to know that it was loaded. And it’s why I was staring down the young woman who wanted nothing to do with me.
“Hold up,” she said, her voice tangling high in her throat. “You don’t need to do this. Thorne knows me, ask him!”
Thorne was one of my brothers. He’d made a point of stepping out of the dressing room when I’d demanded we check every girl here—dancer or otherwise—to make sure she wasn’t wearing a wire. He’d looked me in the eye and said, “It’s a dumb meeting with the Deep Shots to introduce new members. We don’t need to be so careful, no one is going to talk to the cops.”
I’d calmly asked him one thing. “Do you want to search them, or do you want me to?”
My brother had left before I began on the first girl.
Even if Thorne trusted the people working here, I didn’t. I couldn’t. The vicious scar on my face was a constant reminder of that. Anyone can screw you over . . . especially the many dirty cops in this city.
I hate cops.
I’m pretty confident everyone working tonight hated me, too. Each of them had given me wide eyes—a look I was used to—as I made her put her palms on the wall so I could pat her down. If I were anyone else, they’d have probably cussed me out.
But none of them struggled . . . none of them tried to reason her way out of it . . .
Until her.
“Hey, hey, whoa!” the blonde shouted at me. “Slow down. You don’t need to check me for anything, I work here, not for the police!”
I stayed where I was, acting relaxed but knowing I could catch her if she tried to run. “This isn’t up for discussion. I’m checking every dancer here.”
“I’m not a dancer, I’m a waitress!” She’d been the last to arrive in the dressing room. I had a hunch no one had told her why she was needed down here. “Also, why are you looking for wires and weapons on strippers? You do know their whole thing is getting naked, where would they even hide anything?”
When I said nothing else, the woman lifted her arms. My muscles knotted up; was she going to fight me, or was she surrendering?
Her tongue darted over her lower lip in a smooth pink swipe. “Seriously,” she said, “ask Hawthorne, he knows me!”
“Doesn’t matter who knows you. I’m not asking much. I only want you to take off your clothes so I can search you.”
Her face flushed pink, the color bringing out her freckles. The tiny piercing on the side of her nose glinted when she scowled. “Oh? That’s all? Well then, gee, I guess I’ll just strip down and—No! Fuck no! Get Thorne. I’ve been here for eight years, seen plenty of bad shit, and never once said a word. Why is this happening now, why search me tonight?”
This was taking too long. The Deep Shots would be upstairs any minute.
With clean precision I slid the tip of my pistol between us. There wasn’t much space; I’d set up my little “check station” in the corner of the dressing room farthest from the door. The beaten-up and vandalized lockers the girls stored their everyday clothes in were keeping the waitress from bolting in one direction.
My body blocked the other.
“Hey,” she said, flicking her brown eyes to the weapon, then back to me. I was surprised she held my stare so evenly. Few people could. “Can’t we be nice about this?”
“Do I seem nice?” I asked.
“No.” One corner of her mouth went up in an out-of-place smile. “And I thought Hawthorne was the asshole of your family.”
When I was younger that would have hurt. But I’d been called worse things for a long while. “I’m not playing around. Clothes off. Now.”
She stood taller. Most women don’t come close to my height, but in sneakers—who wears sneakers in a club?—her chin was even with mine. I could smell the sweetness of her skin. I’d expected typical stripper smell, but this wasn’t cotton candy and baby powder. This was something . . . richer. Like the inside of a treasure chest, metallic, with a sugary hint I knew and couldn’t place. It was familiar in a way that nagged me.
Her voice was low, anything but soft. “If you’re going to see me naked, you should know my name.”
“You don’t need to be naked, your bra and panties are—”
She spoke over me. “Scotch. My name is Scotch.” Again her piercing shone from how hard she scrunched her nose. “And you? You’re Costello, right?”
My family owned every single strip club in this city, so her knowing my name didn’t startle me. Had she thought it would? Was that why she was talking so casually? She’s trying to distract me, I reminded myself, wondering if she hadn’t already. How long had we been standing here? “If you don’t take your clothes off, I’m going to take them off for you.”
Scotch peered at me. I wondered if she doubted my promise. If she was smart, she wouldn’t. I’d do whatever it took to ensure no cops got involved in this meeting tonight, to keep the people important to me safe. If that included stripping a stubborn waitress, so be it.
She turned away and faced the lockers and curled her nails under her pink-and-blue shirt, peeling it up to expose her back to me. “Get this over with. I have drinks to serve upstairs.”
Tucking the gun back into my jacket, I said, “Smart girl.” I bent close, and that damn scent hit me again, confusing me and making me dizzy. Fighting through it, I brushed my hands over her skin, reaching around to feel for anything hidden on her stomach.
Scotch trembled, her heart kicking at my chest through her spine. She was warm as a perfect cup of tea, smooth as ivory. I was supposed to be feeling for a wire, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how good she felt. How solid and feathery.
When I trailed my fingertips over her hips toward her black skirt, the edge of it rustled under my touch. The gap between me and her spread legs shrank. The instant I brushed the inner part of her hidden thigh, Scotch inhaled through her nose. It wasn’t a scared sound; it was too thick. Static passed between us, and together we stiffened.
She asked me, “Why are you going so slow?”
Sweat crept over my brow. “I’m not. I’m being precise.”
“Oh?” It came out like a purr. “How’s this for precise?” I pride myself on my speed, but this woman rammed her ass right against the front of my slacks before I could dodge. I’m not sure I would have dodged.
My blood raced, battling with the excitement that was curling in my lower belly. How had this simple task become such a game of wills? How was this damn stranger getting under my skin so quickly? Get your shit together! I reprimanded myself. Scotch was grinning; I could see it even with her face turned away.
She wanted to play.
I didn’t. Or I did, but . . . No. I didn’t. I had a job to do. I snatched her wrists and pressed her hands above her head against the lockers so hard that the faded green metal rattled. Over it all I heard her surprised gasp and endured a thrill from it. “Not the wisest move you could have made,” I whispered in her ear.
“Wait,” she said quickly, struggling to face me. I didn’t let her. “Hold on. What are you doing?” I bound her hands with one of mine, and my free fingers hooked into the top of her skirt. “What I promised I’d do from the start.” I pulled it lower, a mere inch, revealing the fish tail of her black thong. My cock swelled painfully. “Taking your clothes off for you.”
She was breathing heavily. My mouth was a tingling mess and my senses were getting fried, but no matter how this girl was turning me on—and fuck, she really was—I was done playing games.
Even if it meant making people hate me . . . even if it meant creating fear . . .
I’d always do what had to be done.
Once upon a time, I would have been a king.
Now?
I’m just a monster.