It's just past ten when I pull up in back of the club. As I close the door and walk over the gravel I hear the music. There's no rush to get inside. They're playing some slow song and I know it's nobody I want to see up on stage. There's only one girl I ever watch. Only one. The others are all rotted, watered-down eye candy.

Making my way into the club, the balls of my feet tingle with the vibration of the music. The smell of beer, cigars and sweat fill the room.

I nod at Junior who stands watching the back door. The place is packed. Of course, no one in the city does a strip club like Tony does. No one.

"Hey, Junior, what's doing?" I ask, giving his a pat on the shoulder.

"Hey, C. The big guy is getting ready for the card game in the back tonight," he laughs. "Conchetta is away for the week, guess he wants to wet his dick a few times before she comes home." He brings his hands across his chest. "You wanna go in, he ain't busy. Just taking care of some business with my pops."

I shrug. Whatever. No rush.

"Hey, Junior, this morning I caught your pops making pancakes for Tony," I say, laughing and punching his arm.

Shaking his head, "Yeah, Carmine told me he threw pancake batter at you. It's fucking crazy the way Tony gets when Connie's not around, right?"

We laugh together as the music pumping through the speakers changes. My eyes scan around the room. That strange carnival music-box beginning, it gets me instantly hard. The first synthesized chords to “Bad Girl” by Girls Love Shoes echoes across the room. The stage lights up and my muscles tense in anticipation. A shadow moves behind the lights, darkness dancing like pure sex.

Thick black hair slides over her tan skin, arms and legs, curves and muscles a heady mixture of soft and hard. She's nothing like the other girls, she’s dressed in leather and lace, fishnets and skulls. No tassels or glitter for her.

You can tell by the rest of the club that this dancer is different just by the temperature of the room. The first click of her heels against the floor—the first sounds of the music-box bells, and the temperature rises—every damn time.

A heady thick feeling grows in the room, a sense of density. A slow buildup of white-hot static electricity charges through the air. It hums across your skin, tightening your flesh. You can see the men leaning forward, clutching their hands over the cool glass of their drinks. Business suits in the back edge closer with their sweaty palms grinding over the front of their pants. Even from Junior standing right beside me with his lingering eyes that somehow seem to caress her legs, her stomach, her breasts. As if she’s drugging us with her flesh, her sweet poison seeping into our skin. Infecting. Devouring. The other girls pale in comparison, vanishing into background music and disappearing like some needless extra key at the bottom of a junk drawer.

Her stage name is Felony, which I think is the best damn name for a stripper I ever heard.

Tony says the real name she gave him was Mallory Knox, but I call bullshit on that name. I Googled the hell out of it, but the only thing that came up was a character from some movie made when I was like two.

The first time I saw her, she came strutting into the club like she should own the place. She was beautiful. Piercing blue eyes, waves of thick black hair. "Dove sei stato per tutta la mia vita?" Tony yelled. Where have you been all my life?

We stood facing each other as Tony spoke to her, and I watched as her eyes slowly slid over to meet mine. It felt like someone had slammed a serrated knife into some empty place in my chest and gutted me right down to my dick. My eyes locked on her mouth as she spoke to him, she needed a job. A friend had sent her. And suddenly she was the only thing that was there, there was nothing—no one else in the room but her. Everything else just went and disappeared on me. Dove sei stato per tutta la mia vita?

She doesn't know I watch her every night she dances here. She’s become my little secret obsession, and I want to know more about her. I know she's not here for the money. I know, because she never does extra. She never does a private show. Even though everyone asks her to. She's not a washed-out mess like most of the other girls here. A filthy fishbowl of troubled souls. Each with their own personal tragedy. Each one worse than the last.

Girls come to work here because they’re broken. If you’re not broken, a place sours you, this existence emotionally mutilates you, slowing your blood and chilling your heart. All the little girls that once thought there was so much in their life to look forward to, come here to drain and wash out after whatever tragic daddy issues they've met with have destroyed them.

Next to me, Junior speaks in whispers, "Jesus. That girl is perfect." A sheen of sweat drips down across his forehead and cheek. His hand flies up to wipe it off quickly.

She turns her back and bends straight down, her lips brushing past her knees, her perfect ass is all we can see. She melts like dripping honey across the stage, sticky, sweet, dirty. Bending and folding, stretching and sliding, as graceful as a ballerina, and as dirty as sin. She raises her hand, and a knife appears out of nowhere. Slipping the blade beneath the thin fishnet material between her breasts she slices through. The black material falls away and her perfect full breasts, shuddering with her breathing, are bared to all of us. Each man in here feels like it’s a special present just for him.

My fists tighten wondering how soft her skin would feel if I touched it. Her stomach quivers with exertion. The lightly inked lines of a tattooed snake coil fluidly across her right hip, its head dipping under the material of her leather and netted bottoms, as if hiding, waiting for just the right time to strike.

She dances and shows no more. Never any more. She doesn't have to. She just dances and slides that sharp blade across her flesh, never breaking skin, and never having to show more of it. Instantly the club reeks of sex.

The back door opens. Tony sticks his head out and smirks. "Gets quiet out here when that one dances. Every time." She's his best dancer, he knows this, there's a special twinkle in his eye even when he watches her. "Corrado, come in. Stop drooling over the girl."

I don’t want to miss the end of her set but I know it won’t do me any good to keep watching.

I walk in behind him and watch him sit behind his monstrous Old World Italian-style desk, the one that used to stand in Giana's father's office, the same one we would play under when we were kids while our fathers discussed family business.

Tony waves for me to sit down. His dark black olive eyes throwing imposing glares at me. "You took care of that situation I told you about, correct?" Tony asks, as he brings a glass of brandy to his lips. Three thin white lines of powder are laid out on the desk in front of him and as soon he sets his brandy down he quickly snorts them all.

"That blow is going kill you one day," I say.

"Ah. I'm invincible," he laughs, wiping his hand across his nose. "God won't ever forgive me and the devil needs me here."

Totally believable, if you ask me.

"What happened today with Patty?" he asks, opening his humidor and walking his fingers over the layers of cigars until he finds the perfect one to smoke.

"We had an enhanced interrogation of sorts," I say, smiling.

Tony has a hard-on for speaking in euphemisms, just in case someone is wired. "Was the situation neutralized?" he asks, cutting his cigar.

"The situation assumed room temperature," I smile. "However, it was quite noisy."

His eyes narrow. His lips curl up into a snarl. "What was said?"

“Your associates are getting worried you're getting into business you have no business getting into.”

He brings his torch up to his cigar and burns the end, deep in thought. “May need to depopulate the area,” he mumbles to himself.

Depopulate the area? He’s going to get us all killed.

“What are the consequences to surround yourself with those…” I try to think of the right words. “Those with severe appearance deficits?” At the rate he's going, the FBI won't get him, one of his associates will.

"What, now some shitty little twenty-something-year old kid is gonna come in here and tell me what to do?”

What the fuck?

"You think extermination is going to solve your growing rodent problem?"

"What the fuck do you want, Corrado? You advising me now? How long ago did your balls drop, a week? Corey, you just got out of state. I promised your mother I'd give you a job and I'd keep you safe. Keep your stupid thoughts to yourself."

"I just want in. Who could you trust like me? Huh? Who?"

"You are such your father's son."

“Tony, come on.”

“There’s plenty of things about the business you are never going to know about. You got enough on your plate. And your Aunt Connie would gut me like a pig if anything were to happen to you.”

At midnight Tony closes the bar to the public and brings the girls in the back. We’re ten security guys deep and everyone is ready to party at Tony Fretolli’s very own Carpet Joint. Where every game starts with a $10,000 ante.

The girls come in willingly, it’s something they look forward to each month—a monthly card game where they could make an easy twenty grand and up. They work hard, though. Tony makes sure there’s a blowjob for every guy. He always says, it makes the game more challenging, keeping your poker face on with your junk in someone's mouth. Even if the biggest spenders lose, they’re guaranteed to go home happy and sated.

There are ten made guys in Tony's crew, including me. Tony was Capo, short for capodecina, and just like in the movies, he’s the boss. Next would usually be an underboss, but Tony doesn't have one. In Tony's outfit, he's it and there’s no one else.

Card games like Tony's bring in the high rollers. And they're all here tonight. Assemblymen, the union representation of sanitation, a few district attorneys; each of them have a girl on their lap and their nose in some blow. Tony's at the head of one of the tables, a glass of brandy in one hand and his other down the front of one of the girl’s costumes, his fingers moving in quick circles beneath the fabric.

Two girls are next to him giggling, waiting for their turn.

Ten minutes into the first game, Candy, one of the oldest girls here, bounces in dragging Felony by the hand behind her. I've never seen her at one of the games before and my fists clench thinking about watching her suck some other guy off. I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle it without snapping like a possessive asshole.

And of course all eyes are on her as she’s standing there, she's the one they all want to have, she's the one that hasn't done any of them. Yet.

The fucked up thing is, she looks shell-shocked.

Her face blanches to a frightening white and you can tell she isn’t seeing what she wants to see. She’s staring wide-eyed at some distant horror that she’s imagining in her very-near future. Jesus Christ, it’s killing me she’s back here.

Then as suddenly as it came, the look of shock and terror leave her and she makes her way through the sea of the most dangerous men that ever called themselves wise guys and starts speaking right to Tony. "Pardon me, Mr. Fretolli, I think this was a mistake. I'm not supposed to be back here."

Tony bursts out laughing from where he sits sucking on his cigar. "You're staying now, amore mio.” My love.

There's no fear in her eyes as she nods her head once, just complete disgust.

Then Franco, the fucknut, jumps in front of her and grabs a handful of her ass. Her jaw clenches too tight and I almost think she’s holding back from punching him.

"Hey, Franco, she came back here for me. We made plans before the game." I walk over and press my hand on her lower back. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched her and the heat of her body makes me fist my hand around the back of her shirt. Her bright blue eyes are wide with questions as I nudge her gently toward one of the smaller back rooms. I can’t watch her go through this. I might end up killing one of these fuckers if I have to sit through that shit.

Opening the door quickly, I gently shove her inside and close the door behind us, flipping the lock.

"I'm not going to have sex with you. I'm engaged," she says, holding up her hand and wiggling her fingers. A small diamond twinkles at me from some pathetic silver band.

"I don't want you to, calm the fuck down." I grab her hand, slide the ring off, and throw it over my shoulder. "And you aren't engaged. Stop lying."

She steps closer to me, tilting her head in a challenge. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. No man would let you dance out there the way you do if he wanted to marry you."

"You don't know me," she snaps.

"I know diamonds, and that one is fake. And baby, it ain't going to keep Tony or his men from touching you. They're going to take whatever they want from you, whether you’re willing to give it up or not." I step closer to her, pushing her against the door. I use my hips to pin her there. "Now moan. Loud."

"What? No. No fucking way."

"I'm sorry, did you want Franco's hairy old balls on you?" I ask.

"No! That’s so gross. Now I have the image of it in my head."

"Then moan, baby. Moan loud. Make them think you're giving me the ride of my life, or one of them is going to try to take you for a spin." I lower my face closer to her as I speak, the skin of my cheeks touching hers, breathing her in. When she doesn't do as I say, I tilt my head and dip in closer, brushing my lips along her jaw. I slow my breathing to fan out long even wisps of warmth across her flesh. Her body shivers instantly. She presses herself back against the door like a scared little kitten but her eyes, her eyes are locked on mine, no fear in sight.

Those eyes hold secrets and I want to know every one of them.

Then she tucks her chin down, cutting my view of them, but her cheeks are blushing beautifully.

“I never took you for being shy,” I say, trailing my finger across the bottom of her chin to lift her attention back up to me.

As her head tilts back, she wets her lips and takes a long deep breath.

She cries out a moan so damn loud and sexual, I feel it in my veins.

"Good girl," I whisper into her ear. "Now do it calling my name. It's Corrado." My face is in the crook of her neck. I want to kiss her there in that bare expanse from the curve of her neck to the sleeve of her shoulder. It’s right there, so close to my lips that my mouth waters, making me swallow hard. It's a beautiful agony. My own personal torture; resisting her flesh.

"I know your stupid name," she rasps, hoarsely.

"Yeah? You practice moaning my name when you're all alone and you slip your fingers down into those little black panties?"

"Screw you, Corrado," she hisses.

I bring my lips to the shell of her ear and whisper low, "I thought that's what you were trying to avoid in here. Because by all means, baby, if you want it, I can guarantee you'll be screaming my damn name within five minutes. Desires like those are way too dangerous in this place.”

Her breathing becomes heavier. “Oh God,” she gasps.

Then she moans out my name. She moans my name over and over on her lips like I’ve imagined her doing for months. Pressing her hands against my chest, she clamps down on my shirt and twists the material in her hands like she’s afraid I'll float away. Intense blue eyes, that seems to ache when she calls out my name, stare wide-eyed at me as she pants and gasps for me. We’re barely touching, just pretending, and it is one of the most intimate things I've ever felt. I squeeze my damn eyes shut so she won’t realize how my name on her lips has the ability to take over my world.

“Yeah, baby. That’s my girl. Ride me real deep and slow,” I moan.

My heart is thudding hard against my chest, and I feel hers pounding just as fast beside it.

“Oh fuck, Corrado.” Her voice cracks over my name. “You’re going to make me come.” She thumps her head back against the door, and her eyes lock on mine. “So hard,” she breathes.

Slow and deliberate, I lift my hands past each side of her face, pressing my palms against the door, caging her in. I have to ball them into fists not to touch her. "Fuck yeah, baby," I groan out. "That's it, baby, come for me."

Together we make it sound so good, so real.

When her moans turn to whimpers, I push her hair over one shoulder and brush my lips along her neck, just a small taste of her skin. Before it’s too much, I unclench my fists and lean away from her. "That sounded intriguing."

She smirks. "We could go into business as porn star voice-overs," she whispers.

Smiling, I’m still caught in her eyes. She’s so damn beautiful. "You have any emotional attachment to this shirt?" I ask her, pinching the black cotton of her top.

"No, why?"

Sliding my hand in the back pocket of her denim skirt, I lift the serrated-edged knife I know she keeps there, flick it open and tear open her shirt from neck to belly. Her breasts, full and beautiful, bounce free and quiver with the quick rise and fall of her chest. Her lips breathe my name once more and fire surges through my veins. Her eyes widen. So close. So damn blue. Questioning me.

"Look around you, gorgeous. We're thugs. Criminals. You don't belong here. You dance like you're a damn ballerina. Get out of here before you can't get out. Any other one of those guys in there would have done whatever they wanted to you. They wouldn't ask for permission. And they wouldn't care if you didn't give it."

A flash of something passes behind her eyes. It’s not fear. It’s a hardness, like she’s seeing something in front of her, beyond me that I’m somehow blind to.

I reach into her bag and she catches my fingers for a moment—quickly pulling her hand back like she just touched fire. "Give me a pair of your panties from in here," I whisper. “I’m just trying to make this all look real.” Her gaze slowly drifts to my eyes as she nods in understanding. I expect her to flinch, get upset, fight with me, but she doesn’t. The corner of her lips tug up and her eyes flash a dark look. She pulls her bag slowly out of my hands and tosses it on the floor near her feet.

With her eyes still locked on mine she reaches down and slides her hands below her skirt and guides a pair of black-laced panties down her long legs and dangles them in front of my face. Her look levels me, slams me flat against the floor with images of that filthy look riding her thighs against mine. It’s like looking at the sun. Damn, I could definitely get into that.

But I don't.

Just call me Saint fucking Corrado. The patron saint of blue balls.

I growl and walk out, leaving her standing in the middle of that room alone, shredded shirt and pantyless. The card game is still going strong, it’s pretty quiet too, but every wise guy sitting there is wearing a smile, thinking they know what just went down in the back room.

"Steer clear, boys, this one's mine until I get my fill of her. I ain't sharing with any of you old wrinkly has-beens." I hold up her panties to my lips and smile behind them.

They all raise their drinks and cheer me. Through the clinking of glasses, and spilling of liquids, her face is all I can focus on. Her head cocks to the side, leaning against the doorway, arms folded across her chest trying to keep everyone from seeing her breasts. Smiling cautiously back at me.

I make sure she gets to her car untouched by any of those fuckers and bounce out of there before anyone can ask questions.

I race home trying to get my head clear, never getting below ninety and blowing every light. My heart won't quit racing, thinking about the black lace between my fingers and the steering wheel, and what it looked like when they slowly skimmed against her flesh. How her hips moved, how her breasts trembled.

Storming into my apartment, I go straight to the refrigerator and pull out a beer. Twisting off the cap, I throw it clinking and clanking onto the counter, and gulp back the icy drink. It makes the blood in my veins feel warmer, yet does nothing to calm my urges. I pull out my gun. Yank out the magazine, clear the chamber, and pull it apart. From under the sink I grab the cleaning fluid and Q-tips and methodically clean the already-clean gun. Nothing erases her image. I walk out onto balcony as dawn seeps into the sky. The autumn leaves burn like fire against the sunrise. I toss my gun and my beer onto the table next to me, and collapse into a patio chair. The television from inside is on low and I can still hear the low voice of a news reporter talking about some storm lurking just east of us, over the waters of the Atlantic.

Reaching down, I pull out a hidden pack of Marlboros I keep in the bottom of the patio table and put one of the stale cigarettes to my lips. I've only had a few over the last few months, only when I needed to plan—think things through. Flipping open my zippo I light it, breathing in the old bitterness, and pick up my gun. I twirl it around like a cowboy then hold it still, looking into the round darkness of the barrel. How many people have ever felt the cool metal of a gun against their cheek on the inside of their mouth? The heaviness of a loaded gun lying on their tongue, the bitter tang of its metal tainted with just a little bit of pressure from the trigger?

I hang my head in my hands, elbows heavy on my knees and take one last drag of my smoke. This is not an easy life. I pinch my cigarette out with my fingers and gulp down the last of my beer, heading back inside. The sun is out now, blazing and burning, and it’s time for me to sleep.

The vision of her dancing still lies behind my eyelids when I close them. The sounds of her moaning when she was pretending I was inside her still ring in my ears. I wonder if she had thought about what it would feel like, me deep inside her making her moan like that. Her lips parting, head tilting back and the slow slide of her over me.

I flop around in my bed, twisting the sheets around me, but for the life of me I can't stop the images of her from racing through my head. I don't even want to.

When I close my eyes all I see is the head of my cock dipping slowly between her lips. Her tongue slowly swirling around, sucking hard and fast, then soft and slow.

Tossing and turning, balls aching for release, I get back up and run the shower. I let the bathtub steam and step in. The soap feels harsh and stings at my skin. The nicks and cuts I got from wrestling with Patterson have me squeezing my eyes shut trying to push away the discomfort.

Even the bites of sharp pain don’t stop the image of her dancing from invading my mind. I brace myself against the cool tiles and let the hot water pour down over me.

I wrap my hand around my cock and start pumping up and down. I wonder what she tastes like. How warm she'd feel around me. I can’t help myself. I want to be inside her.

I get myself off, thinking of her.