“Well, that’s what matters. And good God, a mouthy man. Bet he gives the best oral! Lucky girl.”
She winks at me, and things feel like they’re okay, or at least like they might be okay someday. “Hey, you wanna see my spinning death-drop?”
Eager to get the focus off me and Shane and our bedroom activities, I nod. “Yes! Let me see, girl! But only if you’re not too tired after your performances tonight.”
“Never too tired for you,” Allie replies with a snort. “I could use a few more practice spins too. Come on!”
We go onto the floor, where everyone but Marco has already left, and Allie takes her place on stage while I sit at the front row center table. In the background, I can hear Marco working downstairs, probably still cleaning up.
She does a few warmups, and within minutes, she’s twirling around the pole, high above the stage floor. There’s no music, so it has a different feel. Gone is the sexy sway. It’s just the quiet intensity and small grunts as Allie works the pole. No wonder they do pole dance fitness classes.
Allie does some kick trick that I couldn’t describe even if I tried because it happens so fast, my brain can’t even register it. All I see is her stilettoed foot kick out, and then Allie is speeding upside down toward the floor in a spiral with her arms spread wide in a T, and I gasp. “Allie!”
Right before her head smacks into the stage, she grabs the pole and rolls it along her shoulder, her legs straddling open for a moment before she settles to the floor in the splits.
As if she didn’t just cheat death and defy gravity, she pulls her feet back under and rises gracefully. “So, what do you think?”
My mouth is still hanging wide open, but I manage to yell out, “Mother trucking smurfin’ yeah, biz-nitch!” as I clap loudly. “You’re my hero!”
Allie smiles, and I can see the pride on her face, even as she downplays it. “Yeah, it’s not ballet, for damn sure, but it sure is fun!”
From the side of the stage, I hear a door open and close, and both our eyes snap that direction. But it’s only Marco coming up from the stockroom, boxes of beer in his hands.
He sees me and immediately sets them down. “Holy fuck, Meghan! Where have you been? You okay?”
I run over and give him a hug, and Allie joins in. The three of us hug like it’s been years instead of days, and even though Marco called me by the wrong name, I feel at home.
It doesn’t matter that it’s a strip club or that there’s more to the story than we planned.
I’m home with these people.
Guess Shane’s right. There is a bit of bad girl inside me.
Chapter 24
Shane
I stand on Dominick’s left, Nick to the right as we knock once on the door of the large brownstone near downtown. That we’re even here is just shy of batshit crazy, but it’s Dom’s show. I’m just the muscle who may or may not have to pull out his FBI badge along with a gun at some point.
“You sure?” Nick, who doesn’t know the full story, asks. “I mean, this place—”
“If you don’t have the balls, Nick, I suggest you leave,” Dom says, not turning his eyes from the door. “I’d rather go in with just Shane having my back than someone who doesn’t have balls.”
Nick swallows but stands his ground. The door opens, and though the muscled man who answers doesn’t say it, his surprise is written clear as day on his face.
Dominick doesn’t pause or look at all worried as he adjusts the cuffs on his perfectly tailored suit. In a tasteful black, of course, befitting the occasion. “Good afternoon. We’re here to pay our respects for the loss.”
You can tell the goon wants to object, or at a minimum wants to pat us all down, but what’s the use when we’re all obviously carrying weapons at our sides? Instead, he steps to the side, giving a respectful nod. “Please come in, Mr. Angeline.”
We enter as a group, both for security and to make sure that we can’t get separated. Inside, the wake is loud and boisterous, more of a party than the somber affair of a man who just lost his son unexpectedly and tragically. Actually, considering that I hear what seems to be Latin music playing, it sounds like a damn graduation party.
Still, when Dominick enters the room, a hush falls over the gathering and eyes dart left and right, obviously confused about his appearance. The music stops, and the only sound is one kid who’s in the corner and obviously doesn’t quite understand what’s happening as he keeps doing some lame ass jig until someone pops him in the shoulder.
Fortunately, no one pulls a weapon. From an armchair in the center of the room, a man with slicked back ebony hair and large thick-framed glasses stands up. I’ve never met him, but for the past year plus some, I’ve made sure I’m intimately aware of his face. He’s old enough to be Dominick’s father, and considerably larger, but there’s no mistaking who the real alpha male in the room is.
Sal Rivaldi might try and push his way into East Robinsville, but Dominick isn’t going to let that happen with a breath in his body. Even in his thirties, Dominick is the king of this city and wears his invisible crown like a man with experience and the balls to back whatever play he has deemed correct.
It matters not if the battle is physical or mental. I’d bet on Dominick to win every time.
Looking as if he were standing in his own church instead of the wake of his biggest rival’s son, Dominick extends his hand toward the older man. “Don Rivaldi, I wish to extend my most sincere apologies on the loss of your son. Word of his character had spread throughout the city, and you must be devastated.”
Damn, he is a slick son of a bitch. Not many men could make an expression of sympathy include a backhanded comment about what a shitstain your son was, while also letting it be known that nothing happens in your city without your knowledge. And the use of the term ‘Don’. Very smooth, in that it both gives Sal respect, while at the same time saying he’s behind the times. Dominick’s never insisted on being called Don. In fact, I’ve never heard anyone under the age of sixty use the term with him.
Rivaldi dips his chin in acknowledgement but keeps his eyes on Dominick the whole time. “Please, we are past all these niceties. You can call me Sal.”
I hide a smirk. Dad used to listen to an old song that sounded a lot like that. Dominick looks genuinely pleased, although probably because in the subtle game of mob bosses, he was just elevated in the Rivaldi family’s eyes. “Of course, Sal. And you may call me Dominick.”
Everyone notices the infinitesimal put-down. Sal said that Dominick could use his casual name, while Dominick insisted on his full first name. Nearly, but not quite the same level, and Sal knows it. They eye each other for a moment, the tension in the room building, but Dominick stays cool as a cucumber, no tension in his body even though I know he could snap into asskicking mode in an instant. “Sal, the timing may be indelicate, but I wondered if we could speak?”
Sal looks like he might start something but then relents. “Yes, of course.” He gestures to the chair next to the one he just vacated. Sal moves to a bar in the corner, lifting a decanter of what’s either scotch or something similar. “Drink?”
My training says to never, ever accept a drink from an enemy. Especially alcohol. It’s too easy to hide shit in there. But Dom operates by his own rules and instead nods easily, confident that Sal wouldn’t be stupid enough to try something. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
Dominick takes the amber liquid from Sal and swirls it in the glass before resting it on the arm of the chair. Sal sits, the excitement obvious in his eyes. He thinks he’s gotten one over, that he’s actually going to take over the city from a man clearly his better in every way.