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“Not by name.” I raise an eyebrow. “Fine. My given name is Carmine Dante Romano Carluccio. My mother’s maiden name was Romano; it's my middle name. My Confirmation name is Dante. I hate my father’s name. No one calls me it.”
Seems if I had done some better research, I may have figured that out.
I refuse to back down, though.
“So what, you work at Jerzy Girls?” I ask, my voice teetering on the edge of insanity.
“No.”
“Oh, you don’t? Then what the fuck are you doing here?!” Let’s not address the way my mind instantly goes to the fact that he’s there to watch other women, and that’s what is making my blood boil.
“I own it.”
“No, you don’t. Paulie does. That’s who I spoke with when I came in that first day.” My mind is spinning, not wanting to but needing understand, a constant battle. I don’t even check my mental notes where Marco confirmed this information just today at lunch.
But then again, Marco is also a damned traitor.
Dante laughs, walking closer to me until we are nearly face-to-face.
That laugh irritates me.
This is not fucking funny.
This man is playing with my mind, playing with my life, playing with my body.
“Paulie wishes he owned this place. He works here. I was away that week, and he decided to play pretend. Lucky for you, because if it had been me you sat across from, there’s no way in hell I would have agreed to you working here. Never in a million fucking years.” His hand moves, pushing hair behind my ear, and I roll my shoulder back, trying to move out of his reach. A smile plays on his lips, but beneath it, I can see the predator there.
How was I so stupid?
“But that’s fine. It gave me time, gave me a chance to find you again after all this time. And once I did, I could keep an eye on you, keep you safe when I wasn’t around.”
The sound in my ears goes static.
My mind goes blank.
My body feels weak, as if I no longer own it.
Dante owns the club.
Moments and fractured seconds of time flash through my mind.
The way Marco never questioned the private dances with Mr. Romano.
Roddy telling me the Big Boss declared I was to work the floor the day after I spent the night with Dante.
The girls telling me about the cameras.
He’s always watching.
Anyone touches you, you tell me. The moment of confusion when Roddy told me that, since everyone knows the men get handsy with the waitresses and no one ever cares. You just tell the men no and move on.
Dante parting the crowd like damned Moses, walking through like he owned the place. Attacking that groom like he had not a single care in the world for the repercussions.
He wouldn’t, of course. Because he fucking owns the place.
He couldn’t because he’s a goddamned Carluccio.
And with that last reminder, the thin thread holding my sanity together snaps. I pull my hand back and slap him straight across the face, loving watching his stupid head turn to the left sharply as I do.
