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I glower at him.
"You don’t need to threaten me."
"Most people don’t even have the will power to save for their own retirement," he comments idly. "I felt threats might be more efficient here."
"Fine. Eight weeks, but that’s it, and if I think my cover is blown— that’s a lot of time where I can get caught."
"You’ll trust your instincts," he says, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "they’ve steered you well so far, have they not?" The car starts moving again. This time I’m sure we’re going toward Cascade. It stops outside of a bus stand, a few stops from Cascade, and the Viper offers his hand to me. I take it against my better judgement, and the touch is like spiders crawling up my skin. I want to scream, I want to cry, but instead I give him my most professional smile.
"Thanks," I say, as if he was helping me down the stairs of his front porch. Instead, I open the door, flinging it open rudely and not giving a fuck. He threatened Sam. He bribed someone in my building. It was probably Mrs. Polcha on the bottom floor, blind and barely able to leave her apartment either, subsisting on meager social security. I’m not even mad at her. I’m angry at an evil criminal taking advantage of a poor old woman.
As the door shuts behind me, I hunch my shoulder against the evening breeze, and slouch over to the bus-stop. The car drives off, and I watch for the bus to take me to my new place of employment for the next eight damn weeks. I hope I can manage to survive it, somehow.
CHAPTER 3
luca
"What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?"
The woman across the table from me looks up, her green eyes bright. She’s a fox, this one, a sharp nose and sharper ears, and she’s not shy about it. The line makes me shoot a glare at the man who leveled at her, because what the fuck is he stuck in the 80s? He’s some business-man, a suit, but he’s got a wife and a kid waiting for him at home. I’d know. Dani has his life in a spreadsheet, and she’d have told me if there was anything to be concerned about. That’s the way it is with every client that comes into Cascade. This is our honeypot, attracting the best and worst of our city. It’s the place I get most of the blackmail material that flows through Boston, and gets my guys off the hook when it comes time for them to be hauled in front of a judge, magistrate, or otherwise.
Smartest thing I’ve ever done is turn the Cascade into a cash machine and a safety net. I’ve made friends and enemies on both sides of the law, and everyone else is in the middle, just trying to stay afloat. It’s been to my benefit to exploit them all, high and low.
"A girl like me?" Her voice is low and husky, and she leans forward, her chest pressed against the table. She shakes her tits a little, and with a sigh, I get up, throwing a hundred down for the drink she served me earlier. I don’t know the girls here personally and make sure my upper staff never let them know when I’m coming in. I want to be treated like any other customer. Except when I tip. Her gaze slides to the bill, and then up to me for a brief moment, her mouth parting into a soft ‘o’ of surprise.
"Don’t let him buy you a drink, he’s an asshole," I tell her, and walk away, hearing her laugh softly as the business-suit guy squawks. I can hear the wheels turning, him trying to figure out how he fucked up, why some guy ten times his better just screwed him out of a lap dance.
His kid needs him at home. I don’t judge, I don’t feel any kind of disgust, but I know what that kid needs, and it’s not his dad spending college tuition on one of my girls.
Not that I’m gonna say no to the influx of cash... I walk toward the bar, where Heather, my head bartender, gives me a subtle nod, murmuring to one of the girls to pour me a whiskey. A glass appears at my elbow before I can lean up against the bar.
I take it and survey the room.
It’s not a shithole, not like some of the places that have been burned down by rival gangs over the years. The walls are painted black, and the floors are polished concrete, with a slight shine to them. The stage is lit by a red glow, the music pulsing in time with the beat. It’s not the kind of place that attracts a massive crowd, but the ones who come in and stay, have money, and have an interest in more than just the girls. I know there're all kinds of information brokering going on here, some I’m privy to, some I’m not.
Whatever it is, I’m just glad my spot is the place it happens. It’s helpful, good for business, to be the center of the action.
"You’re not gonna get a dance, not like that," Heather’s voice breaks into my thoughts, and I look at her, raising an eyebrow. She’s got the kind of face that you can read easily, and she’s got that mother-bear protective streak going on.
"Who says I’m here for a dance?" I shoot back, and she quirks a smile at me.
"You have that tension in your shoulders, the one I told you that you should go see my cousin about."
"He’s a chiro," I reply, voice flat, "if I wanted to get my car fixed, I’m not gonna see a tarot card reader?—"
"They’re not all bad," she laughs, edging closer to me, murmuring softly "We got a new one tonight. You might even like her. Her boots are real worn down. She could use a sugar daddy."
I give her an annoyed look, and she doesn’t bother to hide her mirth. I took Heather in when she was fifteen and on the edge of turning tricks out on the corner, close to being snatched up by one of the body-runners that grabs the vulnerables in my district before I can nudge them to better work.
And fuck no, I did not have some skinny teen dancing for old perverts. She washed glassware in the back and slept upstairs until she was old enough to make her own decisions for herself. I’m not her dad, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t try to teach her how the world works, and how to avoid falling through the cracks.
And now, the last five years, she’s my right hand at Cascade, managing the girls and their schedules. She’s got an eye for trouble like almost nobody, and sometimes I think she might read people better than I do. Too bad she’s not interested in a place within the family. I could have, would have, happily set her up with one of my cousins and welcomed her into our circle, and the Greco name.
Heather pats me on the shoulder.
"Eyes up," she taunts, walking away. The beat of the room shifts, a jazzy, bluesy cover of a pop song I don’t know coming on, lights on the stage turning blue.
It sets off the glitter mirrors along the edge of the stage, lights flickering around the room, before the smoke machine starts pumping. The stage goes dark, and when the lights pop again, my hand goes around the glass of whiskey in my hand.
