Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
I don’t brag, which is unusual for me.
I usually overshare, and Nico knows it.
“You’re so fucked.”
I throw my fist into his stomach, winding him. “Shut the fuck up and let a man enjoy the splendor in front of him.” His smile is too smug, so I act like the brat middle child I am. “Alora is aging like fine wine.”
That wipes the smile off his face. “Behave, fuckface, or I’ll make Boris prove his muscles aren’t for show.”
I only direct my eyes to Boris, the massive Samoan bouncer, for a fleeting second before he wilts like a picked flower.
“Make sure he brings a tank. I don’t want to carry all your security to the dumping ground in one sitting. I’ve got plans.”
Before Nico can respond, a staff member taps his shoulder, her expression urgent. Nico sighs, mutters something about never getting a night off, slaps my shoulder in farewell, then disappears into an office at the side of the bar.
I return to my seat. It, like every other table in this nightclub, has a prime view of the dance floor. Influencers, models, actors, and preppy trust fund boys mingle with everyday folk, seeking a taste of a place everyone whispers about. This isn’t just a nightclub. It’s a kingdom.
There are three levels, each dedicated to its own crowd. The first floor is for the tourists who want to say they were here. They dance, drink, and post selfies for their followers.
The second floor is where the real money goes. Athletes, CEOs, and actors come here to be seen and to associate with those they believe are worth their time.
And on the third floor, the floor we’re on, the world’s worst decision-makers make their choices.
Proof? I don’t discourage Azra from participating in whatever scheme Alora is plotting when she whispers something in her ear.
Azra’s eyes flick to mine, and her face scrunches in panic for a nanosecond before she throws back her head and laughs.
Watching her now feels like I am witnessing a transformation I shouldn’t be privileged to see.
Her hair catches the light as she spins with her newfound friends, her smile bright and unguarded. She’s too young for the world she’s stepped into and the weight she carried before we arrived at the club.
Too young for me.
Yet I can’t look away.
I slump back in the booth and cross my arms, eyes locked on Azra. I tell myself I’m here because Antonio prowls clubs like this every weekend, and the quicker I help Azra make him jealous, the sooner I’ll be free from this ridiculous arrangement.
But that’s a lie.
I’m here because something about her pulls at me in a manner I don’t understand.
In a way I don’t like.
Again, Azra throws back her head and laughs at something one of the girls says. The sound doesn’t reach me over the music, but I hear it anyway. A warm and dangerous spark.
I don’t do warm. I also don’t do danger unless I’m the one causing it.
Yet she’s a threat I can’t put a bullet in.
Her hips sway with the beat, her hands in the air, women and men circling her like a pack. She’s glowing and alive, untouched by the shadows that cling to men like me.
A guy with a sleezy smile and a backward cap approaches her, his steps too confident and eager. When he leans into Azra’s side, she stiffens slightly but doesn’t pull away. She’s polite—too polite—and it tightens my jaw.
I’m out of the booth before I realize I’ve moved.
The crowd parts around me without me needing to ask. They always do. The way I carry the Caruso name with the pride it deserves ensures they know better than to get in my way.
Azra hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s still smiling and being kind while striving to exist in a world that doesn’t deserve her softness.
The guy touches her arm, and something in me snaps.
I’m beside her in a breath, one hand closing around her wrist while the other circles the stranger’s throat. My hold on Azra’s arm isn’t firm. Only tight enough for her to look up at me. I can’t say the same about my clutch on the man’s throat. He’s pale, on the brink of passing out.
Azra’s eyes widen with confusion and something else I can’t name.
“Matteo?” Her nose crinkles as she silently pleads for me to free the man from my hold, her gaze as pleading as Boris’s.
I release him, but not without a push that sends him crashing into the empty DJ booth.
I ignore his disbelieving gawk. He’s irrelevant. A gnat buzzing too close to a flame. I keep my focus solely on the person rocketing my itch to kill to the outer sphere of space.
“You’re done here,” I say, voice low.
Azra’s brows knit. “I’m not done dancing yet.”
“I’m telling you you’re done.”
She pulls her hand away from my grasp, chin lifting. “You don’t get to decide when I’m done.”